


Nos Morituri Te Salutamus

by alatariel_gildaen



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, And it's daryl, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Romance, Smut, So expect some colourful language, So people are going to die, it's the Hunger Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alatariel_gildaen/pseuds/alatariel_gildaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As a reminder that the power of the Capitol extends over everyone, this year the tributes will be reaped from all citizens regardless of age. There will be no volunteers."</p><p>It is the 100th Hunger Games and 4th Quarter Quell. District 11 citizen, Daryl Dixon, has been in love with previous winner Carol Peletier for as long as he can remember. But now he has to make the ultimate choice; save himself, or save her heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks go to Na Bruma Leve, Saedhriel, and LovesDaryl for all the awesome support and beta work here. Thank you all so much!
> 
> So this story obviously assumes that when Snow told Katniss to "Convince me," it worked. Snow was convinced. The Victors weren't sent back into the arena for the 3rd Quell. There was no rebellion. And here we are, 25 years later....

_"As a reminder that the power of the Capitol extends over everyone, this year the tributes will be reaped from all citizens regardless of age. There will be no volunteers."_

Carol Peletier, winner of the 75th Annual Hunger Games and 3rd Quarter Quell, watched the announcement delivered by President Blake, and held her daughter a little tighter. This Quell would be Sophia's first Reaping, and while her name would be one amongst thousands and thousands of others from District 11, Carol couldn't help the tight knot of anxiety that formed within the pit of her stomach. Other victors had warned her against having children, but despite the risk, she had always wanted to be a mother. It was even worth entering into the loveless violent marriage with her now dead ex-husband to become a mother. And she had assumed that having a child would stop President Snow—and later his successor, President Blake—from _utilizing_ her quite so much. And for a couple of years, it had worked. But now she held the very real fear that Sophia could be used as a punishment towards her.

She desperately pushed the thought aside, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Sophia's head. One name against tens of thousands. The odds should be very much in her favor.

*****

District 11 was large enough that during a normal year, not all citizens were able to attend the Reaping in person. Immediate family members of potential tributes were obligated to be there, and viewing at home was of course mandatory for all other citizens.

And so for this year's Quarter Quell, the 100th annual Hunger Games, special arrangements had been made. Five checkpoints had been set up across the District at important focal points, and citizens had to make their way to one of these checkpoints, depending on their surname. Anyone whose name began with letters A to E had to gather in front of the usual Justice Building.

It had been many, many years since Daryl Dixon had attended his last Reaping, and now he was back here once again. And he couldn't help but feel that somehow, his number was up. Still, he kept reminding himself, the chances of either his or Merle's name being picked were miniscule. This year, everyone's chances were equal. There were no Tesserae entries. No extra entries depending on age. By the time he turned eighteen, his name had been in the damned Reaping Ball forty-three times, and he'd managed to escape unharmed. Now he was just one name amongst tens of thousands. The odds should be very much in his favor.

When he had been of Reaping age, he had hated having to dress up on Reaping Day on the off-chance that it was his name drawn, and he hated having to do it today. Neither he nor Merle owned anything particularly smart, and certainly nothing that hadn't been repaired a hundred times. He had eventually settled on a plain dark navy shirt, and had tried to bring some form of order to his messy hair by flattening it with a lick of spit.

He checked his appearance in the cracked mirror that hung in the bathroom of the tiny wooden home he shared with his brother. "You better hurry up, little bro," shouted Merle from outside. With one last glance in the mirror, Daryl sighed and went outside to join his older brother.

"Well, aint you lookin' good enough to eat," smirked Merle. "You hopin' to pick up some tail once we're done? Maybe hopin' to catch the eye of a particular silver-haired fox?"

"Shut up, Merle," said Daryl, refusing to look his brother in the eye. Hundreds of people were already making their way towards the Justice Building in the centre of town, and Daryl began to follow them.

"Hell, if you aint lookin' to catch her, you aint gonna have no objections if ole' Merle has a shot…"

Daryl flashed him a warning look, and Merle began to laugh, before jogging to catch up with him.

"So tell me, Darlina. There somethin' goin' on with you and that little mouse? You aint gonna deny me that baby Daryl's been wantin' to get wet with that piece of ass since you was a kid."

"Shut up."

"I know you talk to her, Darlina. You can't keep shit like that secret from Merle."

Daryl scowled at his older brother. "There aint shit there," he said. "Yeah, I talked to her a couple times, but you think if I was with her I'd still be sharin' a bedroom in that shit-hole with you?"

Merle laughed heartily and threw an arm around his brother's shoulders. "Ya got me there, little bro. Come on, let's get this shit show over with."

They finally reached the centre of town, where thousands of people were already gathering to register. After giving their names and a blood sample, Daryl and Merle were shepherded over to stand with all the other men and boys whose surname began with the letter D.

Eventually, as the midday sun was beating down hard against the back of his neck, making him sweat almost as much as the nerves of the Reaping itself, the District Mayor walked up onto the enormous stage erected in front of the Justice Building. Immediately following him was the Capitol's spokeswoman, and then District 11's previous victors.

He caught a glimpse of Carol Peletier, the last winner of a Quarter Quell. He had been sixteen at the time and could remember the Reaping well; as a reminder that during the Dark Days, rebels had often turned on one another, the tributes were chosen personally by whoever's name had come out of the Reaping Ball. Daryl had been grateful that his brother was too old to compete; undoubtedly many people would have happily chosen Merle as a tribute if they'd had the chance, but Daryl had been utterly terrified that someone would choose him as a second-hand punishment for Merle's many indiscretions. He had almost collapsed to the floor in relief when the person nominated was a boy in the year below him. Apparently he had bullied the boy whose name was drawn. Hardly a surprise that the boy had wanted revenge.

What had been surprising was the nomination of Carol Peletier, née Fairbain. Despite the fact that her family worked in the same fields as his, Daryl didn't know her well enough to speak to. Not that he had ever tried. She was an undeniably pretty girl who had caught his eye, but she was couple of years older than him, and every time he tried, he was overcome by shyness. But she seemed quiet, friendly, and conscientious. Hardly the type to have acquired any enemies at all.

But even more surprising had been that Carol proved herself to be an excellent survivalist and efficient killer. She had been nervous and unassuming during her interview with a score of just 6, and for a moment Daryl had half wished he was there with her to protect her. He had daydreamed that they would allow two winners again, like they had the year before. And that he and Carol would have a love story as famous as Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, and a fancy wedding paid for by the Capitol, and never have to slave away for practically nothing ever again. But he had stopped the thoughts as soon as they formed. Partially because there was no point thinking that way, and partially out of embarrassment of what his daddy and his older brother would say if they could hear his thoughts.

She was one of the first to work out that the arena worked like a clock, with different traps setting off every hour, and she managed to keep just away from the most dangerous sectors, allowing the arena to kill most of the tributes, swiftly picking off the remaining few with a dagger. She emerged from the arena rail thin and exhausted, but every bit the Capitol hero.

As the Mayor stepped up to the microphone on the stage and began to talk, giving the history of Panem in the same monotonous tone that he spoke in every year, Daryl's mind began to wander back to the first time he had tried—and failed—to speak to her.

_Daryl had only been two years old when someone from District 11 had last won the Hunger Games. He couldn't remember a time when the Dixons had enough food, even with both him and Merle signing up for multiple Tesserae every year, and with the added meat from the times he and Merle sneaked out to some of the more isolated orchards to hunt._

_And so when Carol won, and the Capitol provided extra food to every single family in District 11, Daryl desperately wanted to talk to her. To thank her for winning from the very bottom of his heart. Because this year, for the first time ever, he hadn't signed up for Tesserae. He hadn't had to put his life further on the line just to stop himself from starving to death. He and Merle weren't risking the very real and terrifying wrath of the Peacekeepers to illegally provide for themselves._

_And there was something about her that he was inexplicably drawn to—something both beautiful and sad—and he wanted to help. He wanted to see her smile, and he wanted that smile to be because of him. After all, she had improved his life no end this year. Surely there was something he could do for her in return?_

_The Capitol had organised an event where she would hand out extra rations, and be filmed for various Capitol Propos. And Daryl waited patiently in line for his opportunity to talk to her. And maybe she would notice him in return. Maybe then he would see her smile?_

_No. She was a Victor. One of the most celebrated people in all of Panem. And he was… he was nobody. Why would she ever give a shit about a nobody when she could have absolutely anyone she wanted?_

_As he reached the head of the queue and took his extra rations he dipped his head, unable to even make eye contact with her, and he mumbled a half-hearted, "Thanks," then stalked away as quickly as possible._

The mayor had stopped talking, and had passed the stage over to Hestia Silverberg, the Capitol escort. This year her hair had been dyed a lurid purple, and it clashed violently with the lime green corseted dress that she had squeezed her ample body into.

"It is an honor to be here in District 11," said Hestia in a forced, bubbly voice. "Especially for such a monumental occasion as the one hundredth anniversary of the way of life that keeps the peace. Happy Hunger Games, everyone, and may the odds be ever in your favor! As always, ladies first."

Hestia tottered over to the first glass Reaping Ball, which was filled to the brim with small slips of paper. She plunged her arm deep into the Ball and withdrew a single slip of paper. She slowly unravelled this and made a delighted face.

"This is exciting!" she said. "Our first tribute is…" She paused and looked out over the crowd, who collectively held their breath. "Sophia Peletier!"

There was an inhuman cry from the stage, as Carol shot to her feet. She was held back by those around her, including Chaff, Durian, Cane, and Seeder, the other District Victors. "Let go of me!" she cried. "Let me volunteer!"

Daryl's heart broke for her as she was wrestled back into her seat, and on the enormous television screens they showed a terrified young girl being walked up to a stage in a different part of the District.

"Holy shit," whispered Merle from beside him. "What are the odds of a shitstorm like that happenin' without it bein' fixed?"

"I dunno," said Daryl. He couldn't tear his eyes from Carol, who was leaning forward in her seat, her head in her hands, the very picture of despair.

"Well, this is exciting, but we've still got the boys to go!" said Hestia, trying to regain some order.

"Good luck, baby brother," whispered Merle.

"Yeah, and you," he replied. Not that they really needed it. There were thousands—literally thousands—of names in those glass balls. But that small comfort didn't stop his heart from pounding harder in his chest, nor did it stop him holding his breath and crossing his fingers as Hestia plunged her hand deep inside the ball and pulled a single slip of paper from within its depths.

She teetered over to the microphone on her ridiculously high heels as she delicately unfolded the tiny scrap of paper with her carefully manicured finger nails. A huge grin broke out over her face. "Well, this is most fortunate! Our male tribute can come right up on stage immediately! Daryl Dixon, please make your way up here!"

When he had been eight years old, he'd climbed one of the peach trees in the orchards, and had missed his footing, sending him tumbling back to the earth with a terrifying jolt. He experienced a similar sensation in his stomach now. There had to have been a mistake. He refused to believe it, and turned helplessly towards his brother. There was anger, sadness, and disbelief on Merle's face, and for a moment Daryl couldn't understand why. They had misheard her, that was all. It was a simple misunderstanding. Out of the thousands of names in that Reaping Ball, his could not have been the one chosen.

Hestia repeated Daryl's name, and Merle clapped a hand to his brother's shoulder and squeezed. All around him people were beginning to look in his direction, as his neighbours and colleagues found him in the crowd. This drew the attention of the Peacekeepers who immediately stepped forward, their guns raised threateningly.

In a dream-like haze he was pushed through the crowd. The already warm District 11 air suddenly felt too hot and too oppressive, but he swallowed his fear and pushed it way down inside himself. He wouldn't allow the cameras to see any weakness, and even though he could feel himself shaking as the Peacekeepers escorted him up to the stage, he kept his jaw set and his hands clenched into tight fists.

As he stepped up on stage he looked at Carol Peletier, and for a brief moment his resolve weakened. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face tear-streaked. The sight broke his heart.

The Mayor stepped forward once more to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason, but Daryl wasn't listening. He looked out over the sea of people who would all be watching him in relief, grateful that they weren't the ones being sent to their death. He glanced back over his shoulder at Carol; she looked as lost and hopeless as he felt, and for a second they made eye contact as she mouthed the words, "I'm so sorry."

_It was his nineteenth birthday. Nineteen was traditionally the most celebrated birthday in District 11; it meant that you had survived every Reaping, and were safe from the Hunger Games from now on. Merle had managed to procure him a bottle of some hideously strong liquor from the black market to celebrate with his friends, and he knocked back several gulps of the burning liquid. He immediately coughed at the foreign sensation, as his friends laughed and clapped him hard on the back. A pleasant warmth started to spread out from his stomach to the rest of his body, making him giddy, and his limbs heavy._

_And that's when he saw her. He had no idea why she was so far away from Victor's Village, back in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the District, but there she was. Carol Fairbain. The woman who occupied a great deal of his waking thoughts for several years. He fell silent and watched her intently for a few moments._

_His friends couldn't help but notice that he had become distracted and they followed his line of sight._

_"Go talk to her," insisted Aaron, one of his closest friends._

_Normally he'd tell his friends to get lost, but the alcohol running through his system gave him a false sense of self-confidence. He knocked back another swig before handing the bottle to Aaron, climbing unsteadily to his feet, and walking over to her._

_"Hey," he said, immediately regretting it when she looked straight in his direction. He couldn't hold her gaze and looked down at his scuffed shoes, kicking at the dry, dusty ground._

_"Hey," she said._

_"You lost?"_

_"No," she said. "Just out for a walk if it's all the same with you."_

_"Shit," he said, feeling his face flood with color. "I didn't mean…Just that…You aint from round here, and it's late and—"_

_"Actually, I am from round here."_

_"Yeah, I know," he said. "I mean… You're a long way from your home now, and—"_

_"I'm also pretty good at taking care of myself," she interrupted, a half smile uplifting the corners of her mouth._

_"Yeah, I guess so," he chuckled, falling silent as he desperately sought something else to say to her. "It's my birthday," he added, inwardly cringing at how childish that sounded._

_"Well, happy birthday," she said. "What's your name?"_

_"Daryl. Daryl Dixon."_

_"Happy birthday, Daryl Dixon."_

_"You want a drink? We got enough to share."_

_Carol looked over his shoulder at his group of friends, who were all watching the interaction eagerly. "You want to get me drunk?" she asked. "And then what? You want to screw around?"_

_He was growing redder by the second. "Pfft. Stop it," he mumbled, as he chewed on the edge of his thumbnail._

_"I'm sorry," she said as she began to laugh, a warm and genuine sound. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."_

_He shrugged, and didn't stop chewing on his thumbnail—a bad habit he'd had since childhood. "Aint embarrassed," he lied, knowing full well that he'd have walked away from this conversation right at the start if it wasn't for the surfeit of alcohol in his system._

_She nodded and looked over her shoulder, a curious expression on her face, as if she was worried that she was being followed. "I should probably go," she said. "It was nice talking to you."_

_"You want me to walk you home?" he asked hopefully._

_"No," she replied, just a little too quickly. "I'll be fine. Thank you."_

_"Another time maybe? If you want to go for a walk again, maybe we can go together?"_

_"No," she replied, looking over her shoulder once again. "I don't think it's a good idea. I'm so sorry."_

_"I aint a creep or nothin'."_

_"I can tell," she replied. "You're very sweet. That's why it has to be no." She reached up to cup his face and pulled him towards her, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Daryl ignored the whoops and cheers from his friends behind him, focusing entirely on the tingling patch of skin where her soft lips had brushed against him. "Stay safe, ok?"_

_"I made it to nineteen," he grinned. "My brother said I'm like a cat with all nine lives."_

_"I hope so," she said, sadly._

The Panem anthem broke through his thoughts. Ordinarily he would be made to shake the hand of his District partner, but Sophia was Reaped from an entirely different checkpoint, and so he stood before the crowds alone. As soon as the anthem ended he was marched off the stage and straight into the Justice Building.

He was taken to a rich, luxurious room, with thick pile carpets and the most comfortable looking sofa he had ever seen. The door was closed behind him and he was left to his own devices. Despite the obvious coziness and opulence, never had he felt so uncomfortable. Even without his impending death sentence hanging over his head, he would have hated to be amongst so much unnecessary wealth. Everything about the place screamed _Capitol._

He still hadn't yet sat down when the door opened. Daryl caught a brief glimpse of the two Peacekeepers outside as Merle walked in.

"You ok, little bro?"

Daryl shrugged. There was nothing to say.

"I got somethin' for ya," he said, and he held up a worn leather vest, with fraying angel wings stitched onto the back. It was Merle's prized possession. He had never had any qualms about punching Daryl if he borrowed it. And now he was giving it away…

"I aint takin' this from ya," said Daryl.

"You gonna take it, and you gonna wear it, and I'm gonna be with ya. Aint no one gonna look out for ya like me, baby brother."

Merle held the vest out towards him, and eventually Daryl took it, running his fingertips lightly over the fraying stitching of the faded wings. He slipped it on over the top of his shirt, and it became a comforting weight as he breathed in the familiar and warm scent.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and his breathing began to hitch.

"Now don't you go gettin' all upset on me. You aint no pussy. You go out there and you show them what you made of, and you come home. You got this, baby brother. Don't you forget. Aint no one can kill a Dixon, but a Dixon."

Merle placed a hand on the back of Daryl's neck and pulled him forward into a tight embrace. They stayed together in silence until the door reopened and Merle was summoned away by the Peacekeepers.

"Remember what I said, little bro," said Merle as the Peacekeepers pulled him out of the door. "You got this."

Shortly after he was put in a car and driven to the train station, which was swarmed with television cameras. Capitol reporters tried to gain his attention, but he had already decided that they weren't going to get a thing from him. He kept his head down and barged through the reporters and photographers, only looking up again once he was safely on the train.

Ordinarily the train pulled away from the station the moment the tributes were aboard, but as they still had to wait for Sophia Peletier to arrive, the train remained stationary. Daryl was shown to his private chambers aboard the train; there was an enormous double bedroom with a Kingsize bed, en suite bathroom, and a comfortable sitting room. Just the bedroom on its own was bigger by far than the entire house he shared with Merle.

"Help yourself to anything in here," said Hestia as she showed him around. "Feel free to take a bath or a shower, and there are plenty of clean clothes in the drawers. This is your home from home for now. Dinner will be served in the dining car an hour from the moment we start to move. I'll come to collect you when it's ready."

As she left she pulled the door closed behind her, and he immediately panicked at the idea of being locked in somewhere. He raced to the door, and yanked at the handle, expecting to find it had been locked. He was therefore surprised to find that the door opened immediately. Hestia turned back towards him, a look of vague curiosity on her face. "Yes?" she asked. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Nothin'," he replied sheepishly, heading back into his own rooms.

He perched on the edge of the bed, and dropped his head into to his hands. Never in his life had he expected to be in such a dire situation. He was being sent to his death. And if he didn't die, it would mean the definite death of a little girl, the daughter of the woman he had always harbored feelings for.

After a few minutes he began to have a look around. As Hestia had said, there were several changes of clothing neatly folded in the drawers, but he refused to dress up like their little puppet. No. If he was going to be forced to play their games, he at least refused to play by their rules. He wandered into the bathroom and turned on the taps. "Holy shit," he breathed, as hot water came cascading from the series of showerheads in the ceiling. He had never had hot running water in his life. He started to unbutton his shirt then immediately changed his mind. Scrubbing up just for the Capitol was the same as dressing up for them, and he refused to do it. Instead he lay back on the enormous bed and waited in silence. After a few minutes the train began to move, but Daryl stayed perfectly still until Hestia finally knocked at his door.

She looked up and down at him in condescending disappointment when she realised that he had neither washed nor changed. With her lips tightly pursed, she said., "Follow me, then."

As soon as he entered the dining cart, he drew the attention of every other occupant, and felt himself grow red under their appraising stares. As well as Hestia, the other four District 11 Victors were already present. Carol and Sophia were nowhere to be seen.

The food in the dining cart was already laid out, and despite his resolution to reject everything expected of him, his stomach growled. Never in his life had he seen such a feast. There were tureens of thick, steaming vegetable soup with soft warm bread and butter, meat stews made with actual beef, not the usual squirrel or rat that he was used to, and fruit dishes piled high with fresh peaches.

Hestia offered him one of these with another of her condescending smiles. "I bet you've always wondered what these are like," she said. "It's one of the wonderful things about being chosen. Even though it's only for a little while, you get to experience all the glorious things the Capitol has to offer."

Daryl took the proffered peach and shoved it in his pocket. The penalty for stealing fruit from the trees was harsh, and it was true that most people in District 11 had probably never tasted the fruit they spent their lives harvesting. But Daryl wasn't like most people, and he and Merle had certainly had their fill on their many hunting trips. He was far more interested in the food that wasn't readily available to him, and loaded a plate up with beef stew, fresh, buttered vegetables, roasted potatoes, and as much bread as he could carry.

After taking a seat at the mahogany dining table he looked around at the rest of the cart; neither Carol nor Sophia had shown up yet. As if she could read his mind, Seeder said, "Carol and Sophia are eating alone. I'm sure you understand."

He nodded and focused entirely on his plate, blocking out the inane chatter from Hestia, and the words of encouragement from the other Victors, and could not help but feel a little disappointed that Carol wasn't with them. Immediately he mentally scolded himself for having such a selfish thought. Of course mother and daughter would want to be together, away from everyone else.

Very soon he had eaten far more than his fill, and was feeling a little ill as a result of it. He wasn't used to such rich food, and in such abundance too. His brain felt heavy and sluggish just as Carol appeared in the dining cart at last. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks tear streaked. He fought the urge to reach out to her and brush the tears away.

"Where is Sophia?" asked Hestia. "She's such a charming looking girl, I was really hoping to get to know her better."

"She won't be joining us tonight," said Carol in a flat tone.

"She ok?" asked Daryl.

Carol stared at Daryl long and hard. "She's a young child being sent to her death."

He nodded and didn't say anything. What was there to say?

"She's asleep," added Carol, quickly wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. "I gave her something to help her relax."

"You must be pretty nervous yourself," said Cane, District 11's latest Victor. The young man had won the 93rd Hunger Games. "But we've got a good team here. Give the Capitol what they want and the sponsorship will roll in."

"I aint doin' what they want," he muttered, refusing to look up at any of them.

"But surely you don't _want_ to die?" chuckled Hestia.

He shrugged. "Don't make a difference what I want. If they wanna kill me they'll find a way."

Hestia clicked her tongue irritably. Perhaps she was used to frightened children kowtowing to her every word, but Daryl wasn't one of them.

"Well," she said with an obnoxious smile, as she tried to regain control. "How about we watch the other Reapings? See who we're up against?"

Daryl scowled at her use of the word 'we.' As if she considered herself to be somehow on their side in this horror show. But she was right in this instance, at least. He wanted to get a look at the competition.

They moved through to a different train cart, one filled with plush sofas and more tables groaning under the weight of fresh fruit, cakes, and pastries. The wave of nausea he felt at the sight of even more food threatened to overcome him. Images of the kids in his neighborhood, skeletally thin and lucky to get two meagre meals in a day flashed through his mind, and the hatred he felt for the Capitol intensified.

After pouring everyone a glass of a smooth alcohol that was entirely unlike the rough, burning liquor that could be purchased on the black market in 11, Hestia pressed a button on a remote, and an enormous screen on the wall flickered into life.

From District 1 the male tribute was a guy in his late twenties or early thirties named Gareth. At first glance he seemed wholly unremarkable, but for a split second there was a look in his eyes that spoke of a deeper sadism. It was a look that was reflected in his District partner, a young girl named Lizzie who, like Sophia, scarcely seemed old enough to be Reaped at all. But unlike Sophia, this girl didn't seem in the least bit worried. Daryl figured it must be the brainwashing that came from living in one of the Career Districts.

District 2's tributes were exactly what Daryl would have expected. All muscle and not a single ounce of fear or humanity. The male tribute, Negan, gave a speech about the honor of being selected, how he had been unable to volunteer as a kid due to circumstances beyond his control, and how he would bring glory back to District 2. Daryl rolled his eyes halfway through the ludicrous display and switched off.

Very few of the other tributes caught his eye. There was some undeniable tragedy; the skinny, pregnant woman from District 7 certainly didn't deserve to be there—although the obvious anger in her District partner made Daryl immediately wary of him. The old man and his teenaged daughter from District 9 surely deserved better as well.

He turned away from the screen as it showed the District 11 Reapings, and only barely glanced at the screen for District 12; the skinny, dark-skinned eighteen year old boy and young blonde woman looked as terrified as every tribute from 12 always did.

"Well," said Hestia, clapping her hands together. "I don't know how everyone else is feeling, but Daryl, I think you at least might be in with a chance."

Carol slammed her glass down on the table with a loud bang and stormed away. He watched her depart then scowled at Hestia, before jogging down the train carriage to catch up with her.

He found her at the very back of the train, leaning on the railings outside and smoking a cigarette.

"You got a spare one of those?" he asked her.

She offered him the packet and he took one of the pre-rolled cigarettes out. Tobacco was rare enough in District 11, but low quality hand-rolling tobacco could be bought on the black market if you had something good enough to trade in return. He'd never had a pre-rolled one in his life.

"Thanks," he said as he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

"They'll kill you, you know."

"Think that's the least of my worries right now."

She chuckled at his joke and leaned her elbows back down on the balustrade. Her expression was impossible to read as she gazed out at the ever-changing scenery.

"I'm real sorry," he said to break the silence between them.

"For what?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Everythin'. Ya shouldn't be goin' through this. Your little girl…she shouldn't be goin' through this. And that Capitol bitch…she had no right to say that."

"Why not?" said Carol coldly. "It's true."

He took a long, deep drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Still don't make it right. And ya never know, she might make it out."

She made a dismissive noise and returned her attention to her cigarette. And for a moment, she let her mask slip, and he was able to see the despair she felt. He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, to tell her that everything was going to be ok, but how could he when he hardly believed it himself?

He swallowed heavily, as his mind desperately sought out a topic of conversation, anything that could try to distract her from her pain, even if only for a moment.

"Ya know, I'm surprised they let us out here," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Anyone ever try and jump?"

"Impossible," she said. "Look."

She reached her hand forward but seemed to stop in mid-air. Daryl did the same. It was completely impassable, as if the air itself was somehow solid.

"Force field," she said. "No one escapes."

He nodded and continued to watch the blur of the landscape as it flew past. Of course they would have thought of that. The Capitol wouldn't allow their tributes to commit suicide. Not unless it was televised.

Carol finished her cigarette and dropped it to the ground, grinding it out under the heel of her boot, then she turned to face Daryl.

"I'm sorry for everything too," she said quietly. "You don't deserve this either."

There was a sincerity in her voice that broke him. And he remembered the first time he ever met her, and how he had wanted to see her smile. More than that, to be the cause of her smile. Well, maybe there was a way to make it happen. Even if he wouldn't be around to see it.

"Look," he said. "I aint fool enough to think I'm gonna be gettin' any help. Not when you got your little girl to worry about instead. And she don't deserve none of this. So I'm gonna do my best to look after her. She's gonna come home. She's gonna grow up with her momma. You'll see."

There was a moment where Daryl swore that he could see a flash of fear in her eyes. But it was gone almost as soon as he spotted it. "Thank you," she said, and she reached towards him, pulling his head towards her, and placed the gentlest of kisses to his forehead. "Thank you. You should get some sleep. Make sure you're ready for the Capitol tomorrow."

Despite the immense comfort of his personal chambers, Daryl didn't get a single minute of sleep. He'd never had his own room, having shared with Merle since the day he was born, and he half-wondered if it was the strange loneliness keeping him awake as much as the fear of the Games. As he rolled onto his side in the darkness, clutching the soft, feather comforter to his chest, he snorted softly to himself. He never thought he'd miss the sound of Merle's snores.

Once the sun had risen enough to justify him being out of bed, Daryl redressed in his own clothes and wandered back to the dining cart. It was already set up with baskets of fresh bread and butter, sweet pastries glazed with syrup, platters of cold meat and cheese, and bowls of fresh fruit. The sight infuriated him. He had seen more food in less than a day than most families in 11 survived on in a month. And a part of him hated himself for partaking in it, but not enough to stop him from placing a little of everything on a plate.

He walked back through to the train cart filled with the plush sofas and sat down to eat his breakfast. After a few minutes he became aware of a presence leaning against the doorframe.

"Haven't you showered yet?" asked Carol without any preamble.

He bit into the flaky, sweet pastry, and was surprised to discover it was filled with a strange, sugary paste. He couldn't quite decide whether he liked it or not. "What the hell is this stuff?" he asked Carol, ignoring her question.

"Marzipan," she answered.

"What the hell is that?"

"You answer my question first."

"Why should I?"

"Why should you answer me, or why should you shower?"

"You answer my question first."

She narrowed her eyes at him but couldn't help the slightest of smirks that appeared on her face. "Stop being obtuse, Daryl. It's made from almonds and sugar. Now your turn."

"Why should I shower?"

"Because it's important to keep up appearances. Even for you. And besides," she added, and the slight smirk on her face grew even larger. "If you don't do it on your own, I'll be forced to hose you down."

"Pfft. Like to see ya try."

She gazed at him, an odd, pitying expression in her eyes. "We'll be arriving in the Capitol in a little under four hours," she said. "And I'm trying to help. I'm not your enemy, Daryl." She offered him a sad half-smile before backing out of the train cart and leaving him alone.

He pushed the remainder of his food aside, his appetite gone as quickly as it had arrived. He wasn't dressing up for the Capitol. But he would at least try. For her.


	2. The Capitol

Inside the Remake Center, the strange Capitol prep team buzzed around him like colorful insects. They were trying to strip him of his clothes and he fought hard against their efforts. It was only when they summoned an Avox—a young man with his tongue cut out who had been forced into a life of thankless servitude—to help strip him, and implied that Daryl would share the young man's fate if he didn't comply, that he relented, and reluctantly allowed them to peel his clothes away.

They fussed over the dirt that had been ground into his skin over the years— "Haven't you _ever_ taken a bath?" —and scrubbed at him with a series of brushes until his skin was red raw, then covered him in a series of creams and ointments that at first burned and stung, and then cooled and soothed.

"What are we doing about hair growth treatments?" asked one of the insect-like people. She was a tall, skinny female (Daryl found it hard to think of her as a woman—she barely seemed human) whose skin had been dyed a light shade of purple, and whose multi-colored, iridescent hair caught the light like beetle-wings. "Do we know if they're allowing the men to grow beards this year?"

"I think it's best to leave that. Some of them already have beards anyway," answered another of the bizarre people. This one had bright yellow, hawk-like eyes, and cheekbones so sharp that they looked to have been carved from wood.

"Well, this is a mess," said the human beetle as she turned Daryl around and looked at his back. "The scars will have to go, of course. What about the tattoos? Do we remove them?"

"Remove them?" repeated Daryl in a vague panic. "You aint gonna—"

"I don't know," interrupted another of the strange people, a male whose tightly curled hair shimmered as if it were woven from pure gold, and which was echoed in the intricate golden spiral tattoos that covered his face and arms. "They are rather… quaint, don't you think? And if we aren't shaving him, it all adds up to a certain, I don't know, rugged style."

"Hmm, I suppose so."

"But you're right. Those scars are going to take a _lot_ of work to remove. Honestly, what these outlying Districts do for fun never fails to amaze me."

He bit down hard on the side of his cheek to stop himself saying something he would regret as the memory of how he had gained those scars leaped to the forefront of his mind.

_He was twenty-two years old and he had missed his opportunity at happiness. News spread around the District like wildfire that Carol Fairbain had married Ed Peletier—a complete asshole who managed a large grove of peach trees to the east of town—in a private ceremony at the Justice Building. How he had courted a woman like Carol, Daryl couldn't understand. What Carol saw in him, he understood even less. But she had made her choice, and he wouldn't pursue her any further._

_But he certainly didn't have to like her choice. Especially as she began to look more and more beaten down every time he saw her._

_She had been married for ten months, and he hadn't had a conversation with her since before her wedding day when he saw her at the covered market in town, walking several steps behind her husband. Her head was lowered, and her shoulders sagged. She looked utterly, utterly defeated._

_The sight of her looking so broken caused a physical pain in his chest. What had happened to her to change her so much? There had been an air of sadness about her for as long as he had known her, but there was defiance too. Now she appeared to be a shell of her former self._

_As she walked past, he couldn't help but notice the bruises on her upper arm. Five of them in a close formation, as if someone had gripped hold of her arm forcefully._

_The sight caused fear to bubble up inside him. Was Ed hurting her, then? It wasn't right to treat another person that way, and definitely not her. She deserved so much better, and if he'd had the chance he would have gladly given it to her. Everything he had. Body and soul._

_"Carol?" he called to her, his voice soft and tentative, not wanting to alert Ed to his presence._

_She turned towards him, flinching slightly as if she had been physically struck. Her reaction all but confirmed his theory._

_"You ok?" he asked her. Very gently he ran his fingers under her chin and tilted her face to look up at him._

_"I'm fine," she said, stepping away from him._

_"You sure?"_

_"I'm fine," she repeated._

_"What the hell is this?" Ed's raised voice caused them both to look up sharply._

_"It's nothing, Ed, we were just talking," said Carol, her voice full of a timidity that Daryl had never heard from her before._

_Ed Peletier drew himself up to his full and intimidating height, and stepped close to Daryl. He shoved him hard against his shoulder and growled, "You stay the hell away from my wife." He then grabbed Carol forcefully by her upper arm and pulled her away. His fingers perfectly matched the placement of her bruising._

_Never in his life had Daryl felt such a surge of uncontrollable anger. A series of profanities spilled from his lips as he grabbed hold of Ed's shoulders, and spun him around on the spot, cracking his jaw with a powerful right hook. Ed stumbled backwards, but before he could regain his footing, Daryl punched him again and again. He felt Ed's nose break under the pummeling of his fists, and could vaguely hear a voice begging him to stop, but it was an impossibility. Ed had every opportunity he never had; he'd come from one of the rich, merchant families. He'd never gone hungry. Never had to risk his life in exchange for Tesserae. Never been made to work the back-breaking labor in the orchards. And now he had the woman of Daryl's dreams, and he didn't deserve her, and worse than that, he was hurting her…_

_Strong hands pulled him away from Ed, and with a terrible, lurching panic, he looked into the masked faces of several Peacekeepers. He struggled against them, but when the cold, metal barrel of a gun poked him in the back of the neck, his muscles froze._

_One of the Peacekeepers pulled his helmet from his head, and Daryl's dread grew tenfold. It was Slate, the District's Head Peacekeeper. Not a man known for his kindness._

_"The punishment for assault and battery, to be carried out immediately, is twenty-five lashes," Slate shouted to the assembled crowd._

_Fear gripped his heart in a metal vice as he was marched through the covered market and into the open Town Square. As a child, he had received more strikes from his father than he was able to count if he had been caught misbehaving, and often when he hadn't. And his father had often threatened to hand him over to the Peacekeepers to be whipped. He'd witnessed a few public whippings and the terror that such a threat struck into him had always brought his behavior back under control._

_And so as he was stripped to the waist and forced to his knees in front of the whipping post, and bile rose in his throat from the unmitigated fear, he pleaded with the Peacekeepers to let him go._

_They offered him no mercy as they roughly tied his hands in place. He looked up briefly and caught Carol's eye. Tears were streaming down her face, as she begged her husband to call off the Peacekeepers. He caught a glimpse of Ed shrugging her away and smirking at him, just as he felt the first burning lash land squarely between his shoulder blades..._

Daryl sat on the very edge of a hospital-style bed, repeatedly biting at his thumbnail as he waited to meet his stylist. The insect-like Capitol prep team had finally left him alone, once they were satisfied that they had removed the angry red scars from his back at last. It had taken a series of several painful injections, followed by an application of a thick, pungent ointment, and finally another series of injections until they clapped their hands together with delight and declared that he was, at last, ready to meet with Lillith, his stylist.

He was wearing nothing but a flimsy robe; yet another humiliation piled onto him from the Capitol. He wondered if this treatment had been reserved for the adults, or if every single child who passed through the Capitol was forced to stand naked for hours, paraded in front of a series of strangers. Were they doing this to Sophia right now? The thought made him feel physically ill.

Finally, a woman walked into the room, and Daryl could only assume she was Lillith, but she was entirely unlike the rest of his prep team.

Her platinum-blonde hair was cut pixie short, her eyes outlined in heavy black eyeliner, and she wore a sleek black catsuit that clung to every inch of her slender body. She looked intimidating, but human, at least.

"Please stand for me," she said.

Daryl did as he was told and felt himself shrink under her intense gaze.

"Do you mind?" she added, as she stepped behind him and reached for his robe.

He wanted to protest, to tell her that he did mind, that he hated being touched, being on display, but she had already pulled the thin piece of material from his shoulders. He shuddered as she ran her fingertips over his shoulder blade, tracing the outline of the winged demons tattooed there.

"Turn around for me please."

It took all of his will power to force himself to turn, and he felt his face grow redder and redder as she inspected him.

"Handsome," she said at last. "Maybe not conventionally so, but definitely handsome. Good, strong arms. We'll want them visible. We can work with this." A smile broke out across her face as she handed Daryl the thin robe. He gratefully accepted it and covered himself as quickly as possible.

"You aint dressin' me up in some stupid costume," he said, suddenly feeling bold. "Or wearin' no makeup or nothin'. That aint me. You're gonna find a way to kill me whatever ya do. So fuck all of ya. If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die as me."

She smiled tightly at his outburst. "I saw the clothes you came here in," she said. "Wings again. Do they mean something to you?"

Her quiet but intense nature was disarming, and despite himself he could not help but answer her honestly. "The vest is my brother's. He said that… that if I wear it he'll be lookin' out for me. And these—" he pointed over his shoulder at the tattoos— "See, my friend's real good at art. He doesn't get much of a chance to… 'Cause he has to work all the time, ya know... Took me ages to save up the money to buy ink for him to do this… Hurt like hell..."

He stopped talking and his face flooded with color as he realised he'd revealed far too much for his own comfort, but Lillith seemed more than happy. "We can work with this," she repeated. "No silly costumes. I never liked all that nonsense anyway. And there's nothing at all in the rules that says you _have_ to be dressed up like an apple tree or anything quite so ridiculous. I'd rather show everyone your personality, not what you do to survive. But," she said, suddenly serious, "that's not to say that we don't want to make an impression. I've been working on a little something with Pan—your District partner's stylist—and I think with a bit of tweaking we can create something spectacular for the pair of you."

Several hours later he was taken down to the basement of the Remake Center to prepare for the opening ceremonies. He was dressed in simple black pants and a black sleeveless shirt, and was grateful that he wasn't being made to wear anything embarrassing, but equally couldn't understand what could possibly be spectacular about such a plain outfit. Sophia was brought down, and likewise she was dressed very plainly; just a simple white dress. Her nervousness was apparent and Daryl nodded towards her, offering her an encouraging half-smile.

Lillith stood before him and carefully adjusted the collar of his shirt. "Your clothing has been fitted with a powerful crystal laser display—"

"A what?" interrupted Daryl. "You got us wired up?"

"It's perfectly safe," she replied. "And it will get you both noticed. Once the horses take you out, I want you to wait thirty seconds, then Daryl, you will pick Sophia up and carry her on your hip. Can you do that?"

Daryl nodded.

"Show me."

He easily scooped up the tiny child, clutching her to his side, and as she wrapped her arms around his neck to hold on tight, Lillith nodded with satisfaction. "Good," she said. "Put her down for now. You'll need to hold onto her for the entire ride. Her proximity to you will power yours up first, and then Sophia's a minute later."

"What's it do?"

But Lillith merely smiled and didn't answer.

Loud music blared through nearby speakers, and Daryl's heart dropped. It was the music for the opening ceremony, which would be starting at any moment. They were led towards a chariot that was to be pulled through the streets of the Capitol by four powerful chestnut horses. Sophia clutched hold of Daryl's hand, and he gently squeezed hers in return.

"You ok, Sophia?" he asked as they stepped up on to their chariot.

"I'm scared," she said.

"I'm gonna be right here by your side. You aint gotta worry about them Capitol assholes right now, ok?"

Lillith stepped up beside both of them and adjusted their clothes very slightly. "Sophia," she said. "I know this is very frightening, but I want to see big smiles from you, ok? Daryl? Don't forget, when the horses start to move, you count to thirty, then you pick Sophia up. If everything goes to plan, the crowds will then see in you both what I see."

"What are they gonna see?" pressed Daryl as she made one or two last adjustments. But once again, Lillith remained silent.

"Good luck. Both of you."

Moments later the horses began to trot, pulling the chariot along at speed. Daryl stared straight ahead, not looking at the cheering crowds and counted to thirty.

"You ready?" he asked Sophia. She swallowed heavily and nodded.

He leaned down towards her, and once again she wrapped her arms around his neck as he stood up, holding her close to his side. The crowds cheered their appreciation at the show of solidarity, but it was a restrained kind of applause. Then suddenly he could see a blinding white light in the corner of his vision. Sophia gasped in his ear, and her gasp was echoed across the Capitol audience.

"You have wings!" whispered Sophia.

He risked a glance over his shoulder and nearly stumbled with surprise. Stretched out behind him, as delicate as filigree and looking as if they had been spun from nothing but light, were an enormous pair of angel wings.

As the crowd's cheers reached a deafening peak, a pair of bright white wings, once again made from nothing but light, slowly grew from Sophia's back. They stretched and fluttered in the breeze, and Daryl caught sight of them both of the enormous television screens. He didn't think it was possible, but the noise from the crowds grew even louder. Much as he hated to admit it, but Lillith's styling may well have won them the sponsorship of the crowds, which in turn may have saved Sophia's life.

"Wave to them," he whispered to her.

"But you said they were assholes."

"Hey," he said. "Don't you let your momma hear you talkin' like that. She'll kick my ass so hard I won't ever be able to sit again. Just wave to them. I got ya."

She hesitantly let go of his neck and he held her just a little tighter as she gave the crowds a shy wave. The applause that followed was tumultuous.

The twelve chariots made their way through the streets until at long last they reached the City Circle and they pulled up in front of President Blake's mansion.

The man himself stepped forward and addressed the twenty-four tributes directly, thanking them for their bravery and sacrifice. In his arms, Sophia began to tremble and he held her tighter, a seething hatred for the President burning through his veins. He glared up the President, safe behind his walls, never having had to fight, or feel hunger, or fear, and he wished that there was something— _anything_ —that he could do to defy the smug son-of-a-bitch.

The enormous television screens that lined the City Circle were showing each of the tributes in turn. They seemed to linger on himself and Sophia longer than on any of the other tributes. And was it his imagination, or had President Blake noticed this too? Certainly as he delivered the rest of his speech, he seemed to be facing Daryl directly.

At long last, the chariots began to move again, circling once around the City Circle before disappearing into the Training Center.

They were greeted by Hestia and their prep teams applauding them enthusiastically, and Lillith winked at them as they climbed down from the chariots, the beautifully illuminated angel wings flickering and vanishing at last.

Carol appeared in the crowds. As soon as she saw them she ran towards them, then ducked down to pick Sophia up in her arms. "You did so well, sweetheart," she said. "You were so brave." She flashed a half-smile towards Daryl. "Thank you," she said. "There's already initial interest from sponsors. I can't… I can't thank you enough."

He nodded and followed her into the building. Hestia sang their praises; of course any triumphs from District 11 reflected well on her, and she loved basking in the reflected glory. Indeed, she didn't shut up once as they all rode the elevator up to their private quarters.

The Training Center had a tower designed for the tributes to live in luxury up until the games started. They had the entire eleventh floor to themselves, and the quarters assigned to Daryl were more luxurious than anything he could possibly have ever imagined in his wildest dreams. He had been amazed by the shower on the train—hot running water was more of a luxury than he had ever imagined—but the shower here was something else entirely. A control panel in the wall offered hundreds of different settings, regulating the temperature, the pressure, any scented oils, lotions, or soaps, and whether the water came from a single shower head, or fell from the entire ceiling like a gentle rain.

A wardrobe had been filled with clothes that had been cut and tailored to his exact measurements. He flicked through these in disgust. Just one single suit probably cost more money than he had owned in his entire life. At the end of the row of silk shirts and tailored suits was a battered, worn leather vest, fraying angel wings sewed into the back. He allowed himself a small smile. His big brother was still looking out for him.

The best part of his quarters was a panel built into the wall with an extensive menu beside it. All he had to do was speak into the panel, and within a couple of minutes his chosen food was brought to him, fresher than anything he had ever eaten.

After a basket of hot, crusty rolls and fresh butter, and a bottle of whisky were delivered to him, he sat on the windowsill and looked out over the city as he ate his fill. The night sky was pitch black, which was unusual as there wasn't a single cloud in the sky; the lights of the bright Capitol drowned out the stars that he was so used to. It made him feel even more alone and more homesick for District 11 than he thought possible. He took a swig of wine straight from the bottle, and its pleasant warmth spread through to his extremities, making him even more melancholic.

A knock at his door caught his attention. "What?" he called out.

His heart skipped a beat as Carol pushed open the door. "Are you going to try and drink yourself to death before morning?" she asked, nodding towards the whisky.

"Better than what they got planned for me," he shrugged, as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Stop," she said. "You'll only make it worse. So put it down, and come and join the rest of us."

He tore his gaze away from her and turned back to the window. "Naw, I'm good," he said. Lillith was alright, and the other Victors at least understood what he was going through, but the idea of spending a minute more than was necessary in the company of Hestia or the rest of his prep team, who would forget his name the moment he died while applauding those who did it made him feel nauseous.

"I think you should. We're talking strategy."

He looked down into the street below where hundreds of Capitol citizens were still celebrating the opening of the Games. They were the same as his team; they might raise a glass to toast his death, but they would laugh and cheer and forget him as quickly as every other unfortunate soul who found themselves here. Anger rose through his chest. He might have been a nobody, but surely he deserved more than this?

"I don't wanna hear nothin' them assholes have to say."

"Well, you should. They're on your side."

"Pfft. Up until they land me in a grave."

She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest. "It's not over yet, Daryl," she said softly. "And I'm not going to let you pull away. Not when you're doing so well."

She stepped towards him a placed her hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch slightly under the unexpected contact. But she was tender and entirely undemanding of him, and slowly he felt the walls he had built begin to crumble. With a resigned nod, he followed her into the shared sitting room to rejoin his team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to na-bruma-leve, saedhriel, and lovesdaryl for being an awesome trio of betas!
> 
> Now hit that comment button - it makes new chapters appear sooner. Thanks all!


	3. The Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to na-bruma-leve, lovesdaryl, and saedhriel for inspiration, support and beta reading! 
> 
> Comments are always welcome, of course ;)
> 
> And I realised I didn't say this before, but in case it isn't clear, flashbacks are in italics :)

They would spend the next three days training, learning how to kill, how to survive. Daryl already knew how to do both, of course. Or at least, he knew how to survive, and how to hunt. He tried not to think about how different killing a person would be to shooting squirrels. Sophia had a lot to learn however. They rode the elevators down to the basement, to where the training would be taking place in an enormous underground gymnasium. There were stations all around the gym, with experts teaching various skills, and Daryl determined that he would stick to Sophia's side like glue.

Not long after they entered the gym, the Gamesmakers appeared in elevated stands all the way around the edge of the huge room. They would be there to observe and to make notes on the tributes; perhaps even these training sessions would count towards their final score?

But instead of trying to impress them, Daryl spent most of the morning also observing the competition, and trying to draw as little attention from them as possible. After encouraging Sophia to try some of the survival stations—to learn how to set traps, start a fire, and to camouflage herself should they get separated—Daryl watched the other tributes.

His initial feelings about the man from District 2—Negan—proved to be correct; he was far too eager to get into the arena and prove himself to be the best man there. The man seemed more than willing to show off his brute strength and clear lack of mercy to anyone watching, and after sparring with—and quickly defeating—several Capitol trainers in a row, Daryl decided that the sooner this man died in the Games, the safer he and Sophia would be. He formed an alliance with his District partner immediately—a red haired woman with little patience for those around her. Daryl felt they were quite welcome to each other. Certainly no one else seemed willing to join their alliance; it was pretty clear that anyone who did would be stabbed in the back early on.

There was a jovial and rather philosophical old man from District 4 who seemed overly protective of the blonde woman from the same District. Daryl watched her growing frustration with him with a degree of amusement. If the situation wasn't so dire it could have been pretty funny.

The other old man and his teenage daughter from 9 sat together in one corner of the room, ignoring the various stations, and he comforted her as she cried. Daryl caught a glimpse of the man's prosthetic leg. It was harsh, but clearly neither of them were anything to worry about.

There was a man of about his own age from District 7. Daryl remembered the anger in his eyes from the videos of the Reaping, and it still clearly bubbled below the surface, despite the man's attempts to make friends and form alliances with some of the other tributes. He was a crack shot on the firing range, and Daryl just hoped that when it came down to it, he wasn't able to get hold of a ranged weapon.

Halfway through the afternoon, the young girl from District 1 who was about the same age as Sophia came over to introduce herself, causing Daryl to tense. Her forced attempts at conversation with Sophia grated on Daryl's nerves, and when she suggested the possibility of an alliance, Daryl physically pulled her away.

"I don't want you talkin' to that girl," Daryl said in a low voice.

"Her name's Lizzie," replied Sophia. "And she's nice."

"I don't know what her game is, but she ain't 'nice.' She's tryin' to trick ya."

"No, she's not," insisted Sophia. "She's scared too. She just wants to be friends."

"Yeah, well, this ain't the place to be makin' no friends. You got me to look out for ya. That's all you'll need."

"And what if we do get separated? What if you can't find me? What if I'm on my own? I want at least one other friend in there." She yanked her arm out of Daryl's grasp and ran off to where Lizzie was at a station teaching tributes how to fight with a knife, and Daryl watched her go with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Hopefully the young girl from 1 wouldn't make it past the first day, because he had a dreadful feeling that she would prove to be trouble in the end.

"Is she yours?" said a nearby voice. Daryl turned saw a man with short dark hair and prominent eyes, chewing noisily on some gum. He recognised him as the male tribute from District 8. Something about the man immediately rubbed Daryl up the wrong way.

"Naw, she ain't mine. Not like that, anyway."

"Not like that… What does that mean?"

"Means she ain't mine, but she's my responsibility. What's it to ya?"

"Huh," said the guy, smirking slightly. "So… You're the kind of guy who saves kids. Even ones that aren't yours."

"You tryin' to push me?"

"No," said the man. "Just making an observation. I heard what you said about making friends, and you're right. This isn't the place to have friends. Just people you stay alive with. For a while. But if you're the kind of guy who saves kids… You're going to die on the first day."

"You just worry about yourself," snapped Daryl, turning away from him. He marched over to the station where Sophia and Lizzie were learning about knives. "Come on," he said to Sophia, barely able to contain the anger in his voice. "I'm gonna teach ya how to shoot. Just you," he added when Lizzie tried to follow.

"Why are you being horrible?" demanded Sophia.

"Why are you tryin' to get yourself killed? Huh?" he said in a hushed voice. "You can't trust none of these people. They ain't here to help ya. I am."

"You don't know that."

"I don't…? The hell are you talkin' about? You think when it comes down to it she's gonna lay her life down for ya? Shit, even that old man over there… I bet he's sweet as honey at home, but if it comes down to a choice between you or his kin, he'll leave you to rot. But I made a promise to your momma that you're gonna get home safe. Do you get that? Do you understand what that means? What it means _for me?_ 'Cause none of these other people are gonna do that for ya. Why the hell would they?"

Sophia's big blue eyes filled with tears, and she turned away from him and ran. A feeling of guilt swept over him, and he wanted to go after her, but had no idea what to say and was worried that he would make it worse.

The man from 8 was still watching him, his smirk having grown even wider. "You still feel like saving her?" he taunted.

There were very clear rules about engaging other tributes in combat before entering the arena, and it took all of Daryl's self-control to not break that rule and punch the smug asshole's smile right off his face.

But he needed to do something to blow off the anger he suddenly felt. On one side of the gym was a holographic combat simulator with various weapons. In amongst the hunting bows, rifles, swords, daggers, spears, and axes, was the familiar shape of a crossbow, and he reached towards this with a grim smile.

It was a little lighter than his own crossbow, and it took a couple of shots at stationary targets for him to become accustomed to the feel of it. After also grabbing a knife from the rack of weapons he nodded towards the trainer who hit a button to start the simulation.

His surroundings shimmered slightly; no longer was the area clear and open, but various obstacles, hiding spots, and vantage points had been holographically created. Almost immediately, the glowing outline of a man ran out from behind one of the hiding spots. Daryl raised his crossbow and tracked the glowing figure, firing a second later. The outline fell to the floor and disappeared.

He ducked down behind cover while he reloaded, and when he stood he noticed that there were now two of the holographic enemies now slowly stalking him. Daryl released the first bolt—the figure exploded in a ball of light—and reloaded immediately, felling the second target a split second later.

More figures appeared, and he knew he wouldn't have time to reload between each of them. That didn't matter. Shooting the targets wasn't doing anything to ease the anger he still felt, and he ducked and weaved through the holographic cover to take the figures on in direct combat. He noticed as he approached them that each of the figures seemed to suddenly obtain a holographic weapon. The first figure swung at him with what looked like a small axe but he ducked under the weapon's arc and stabbed it before it could recover.

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he jumped backwards as the holographic figure lunged towards him with what looked like a short sword. He kicked the figure in the stomach, and as it doubled up, he plunged his knife down into its head.

In a swift move, as one of the figures ran towards him wielding a heavy club, he grabbed a bolt from the brace and held it like a spear, stabbing it into the approaching enemy. He loaded the bow using the same bolt and fired towards a figure that had been aiming a holographic bow at him.

Over and over more enemies appeared with increasing ferocity, and over and over Daryl dispatched them quickly and efficiently, until his limbs were aching and sweat was running into his eyes.

Finally, an alarm sounded and the figures around him faded to nothing. The cover and vantage points disappeared too, leaving the area empty and clear once more. Daryl stood in the middle of the room, his chest heaving as he fought to recover his breath. "The hell's goin' on?" he called out.

"End of simulation," replied the trainer. "Do you want to start again?"

Several other tributes had gathered around the edge of the simulation area to watch him, and the expressions on their faces ranged from envious to alarmed. From scheming to deeply impressed. Negan and his District partner were in deep, whispered conversation, and Daryl saw him say something and draw his finger across his throat in an obvious gesture. So much for keeping a low profile…

He shook his head, tossed the crossbow and dagger back amongst the racks of weapons, and barged past the amassed onlookers, collapsing on a bench at the side of the gym. A strange sensation crept over his skin as if was being watched and he looked up, immediately spotting Sophia in amongst the crowds. She wore an expression of absolute terror as she looked at him.

What had he done? In his fury and frustration he had shown a side of himself that he had never wanted her to see. How could she possibly trust him after she had seen precisely what he was capable of? And he had surely made himself, and anyone allied to him, a target. He rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

"Don't think she's going to want to be anywhere near you after that little display," said a snide voice.

Daryl looked up into the face of the man from 8. "I'm gonna kill you first, you son of a bitch," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

"We'll see," said the man. "I mean, you must know that fighting a hologram isn't the same as fighting a real person. And… it looks like I know how to push your buttons. And that makes you more likely to make a mistake. So… I'm going to kill you first, and then I'm going after your little girl. Just so you know."

It was fortunate that at that moment a klaxxon rang out across the gym, signalling the end of the day's training, and the man from 8 was swept up in the tides of people, because Daryl would have more than likely broken the no combat rule had they not been interrupted.

As the other tributes filed past, he dropped his head back into his hands and tried to think of a way to make it right, not just with Sophia, but with Carol too. For Sophia would inevitably tell her momma what an awful man that Daryl Dixon was, and he couldn't bear the thought of dying, and animosity being Carol's final feelings towards him.

"Hey," said a voice, shaking Daryl from his melancholy. It was the trainer who had operated the fight simulator. "You better get back up to your floor. You shouldn't be down here after hours. Gives people an unfair advantage."

Daryl nodded silently and stood, heading back out to the elevators.

"But just so you know," said the trainer, "that's the first time I've ever seen anyone complete the simulation on their first turn. And on the first day of training too. My money's on you."

The words were obviously meant as a compliment, but they still grated on Daryl's nerves, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. He still hadn't quite come to terms with the fact that he would likely be dead within the next week.

As he walked from the gym he was met with the most surprising sight. All of District 11's Victors were stood in the foyer near the elevators, deep in conversation with Victors from other Districts.

He was used to seeing the District 11 Victors, but somehow seeing those from other Districts felt oddly surreal. All of them were famous, of course, but some more so than others, and these in particular made him feel strangely as if he was dreaming. Peeta and Katniss Mellark were deep in conversation with Cane and Seeder, and was it Daryl's imagination, or did all four of them glance quickly in his direction before returning to their talk. Durian was talking to Lindell Barker—a District 7 Victor from around ten years back—as well as Johanna Mason. But his eye was mostly drawn towards Carol and the Victor sidling up beside her. His red hair was flecked with grey, and his green eyes sparkled mischievously. Finnick Odair was far, far too close to her, and his reputation as a Lothario was well known. A monster reared in Daryl's chest, clawing at him with its jealousy. He'd been unable to punch the asshole from District 8, and if he punched the Capitol's most beloved Victor, the Gamesmakers would probably find a way to blow him up on day one. But he still wasn't going to allow Finnick Odair to get that close to Carol.

He marched straight over to where she was standing and inserted himself directly between herself and Odair. "What's goin' on?" he asked her.

From behind him he could hear the amused and derisive chuckle of the Victor at his behavior, and in front of him Carol raised an eyebrow, clearly fighting to contain the smile that threatened to break out.

"We were all just talking about you, actually. Seems you caught the eye of a few of the other tributes today. Finnick was just telling me that one of his tributes has put in a formal request for an alliance."

"Yeah? Well you can tell Finnick to go fuck himself."

From behind him, he heard Finnick laugh and say, "You know where to find me if he changes his mind, Carol."

"Well, if Finnick can't work his magic, I take it there's little point in the rest of us bothering," said Johanna loudly. She abandoned her conversation with Durian and walked straight towards the elevators. "See you around, stud," she said to Daryl with a lewd wink.

Daryl watched her saunter away, entirely taken aback by her boldness.

"Come on then, _stud_ ," said Carol in a low voice. "Let's get you back upstairs. Katniss? Peeta?" she called out. "I think we're going to have to say no."

The two most famous Victors in the history of the Hunger Games looked towards them, disappointment in his eyes and disdain in hers.

Peeta stepped a little closer. "I know that ultimately alliances always get broken," he said. "But from what I've heard, you may have made yourself a target today, and that could be even more dangerous for you. Don't dismiss the possibility without at least thinking it through first." He offered Daryl the slightest of smiles before reaching for his wife's hand and entering the nearest elevator. Just as the doors closed, he swore that he could hear Katniss say, "I don't trust him."

"Yeah, you better not," Daryl shouted towards the moving elevator.

"Daryl, please," said Carol. "We're just trying to help you. You promised me on the train that you'd try, too. Please don't break that promise now."

He mumbled an apology and walked towards the elevators, Carol right behind him. As soon as the glass box arrived before them, he turned to her and said, "I gotta talk to you. About Sophia."

She turned to the other District 11 Victors, an overly cheery smile on her face. "Do you mind if we get this one alone? We need to talk."

As soon as the doors closed and the two of them were alone, her smile faltered. Whatever character she had been playing for the benefit of the Capitol, for the benefit of the other Victors, slipped away.

"What about her?" she asked. "Are you…" She swallowed heavily, fighting with an internal panic. "Have you changed your mind?"

"I ain't changed my mind," he said. "But I don't know if Sophia's gonna want me on her side. I shouted at her today."

"You shouted at her?"

"She was gettin' too friendly with that girl from 1. And there's something about her that aint right."

"So you shouted at her?"

"I didn't mean …," he began, unsure of how to finish his sentence. "And then she saw me fightin' and I ain't never seen someone look at me so scared before."

Carol took a deep breath, exhaling it very slowly. "I'll talk to her," she said.

"You gotta tell her to stay away from that girl," he added. "She'll listen to her momma."

The elevator was nearing the eleventh floor. Just before the doors opened, Carol reached up and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "I will," she said. "You're a good man, Daryl. I don't think you've been told that enough."

The doors opened and Carol walked away, the feeling of her lips on his cheek leaving him dazed, and her words echoing around his mind.

_Pregnancy suited her. She was still slim, but there was a prominence to her belly that very few in District 11 ever managed to achieve. And she seemed happier in herself by far than Daryl had seen her for a long time._

_Still, the sight of her walking through her old neighborhood stirred up a lot of memories and emotions._

_At twenty-five, Daryl was still very much a single man. And although he attracted attention from a lot of women, he wasn't interested in any of them. He heard the whispers in the town that there was something strange, something...abnormal...about him, but he didn't give a shit what the townsfolk had to say. After all, his friend Aaron's name had been dragged through the mud in a similar way. Only when Aaron raised his head high and told anyone who whispered behind his back that not only were their accusations correct, but that he didn't care what they thought of him, did they stop._

_Daryl knew perfectly well that the whispers about him did not hold an ounce of truth, and he tried not to let them bother him. Indeed, they seemed to bother Merle far more, and he kept trying to set his younger brother up with a slew of women. He had even paid for a few to spend a little time in Daryl's company. And while Daryl may have taken advantage of the physical comfort those that had been paid for in advance offered him, none of Merle's suggestions held his interest at all. There had only ever been one woman for him, and she had slipped through his fingers like sand in an hour glass._

_And so, when he was sat on his porch one evening and he saw her, pregnant and glowing and more beautiful than he had ever seen her, it felt like she was simultaneously a bullet causing him injury, and a balm soothing the same wound. He knew it would hurt him to speak with her, but it would hurt more to just let her walk away._

_"Hey," he called out to her._

_She looked up and smiled towards him. "Hey."_

_"What are ya doin' so far from home?"_

_"It was just such a pleasant evening," she replied. "I thought it'd be nice to go for a walk."_

_He nodded. "Ya picked a weird place to come though."_

_She shrugged and said, "Not really. I have a lot of happy memories of this place." A shy smile crept over her face. "I wouldn't expect anyone to understand," she added. "What are you doing out?"_

_He could feel the heat creeping across his face as he indicated the tiny, ramshackle house behind him. "Merle's got...company. I ain't got nowhere to go until…"_

_She burst out laughing, and Daryl couldn't help but smile as well. "I hope you pay him back in kind," she said._

_"Naw," he said, the heat across his cheeks intensifying. "I ain't much of a hit with women."_

_"I find that very hard to believe," she said, stepping a little closer towards him._

_His mind and body froze. He silently screamed at himself to say something witty, but there was nothing. But before he was able to think of a single thing, a look of concern flashed over her face, and she inhaled sharply as if in pain._

_"You ok?" he asked her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder._

_"Gotta be," she replied, but a split second later she cried out and doubled over, clutching at her swollen belly._

_He didn't stop to think twice. He scooped her up in his arms and began to race through the town. Thorne Cloyd was the local healer; not as fancy as any Capitol doctors, but the best that any ordinary folk in District 11 could afford. He had fixed Daryl's back after being whipped, sewing the torn and shredded skin back together and smearing the raw wounds with a thick application of herbs and animal fat that prevented infection._

_As soon as he reached the healer's home, he kicked hard three times on the door by way of knocking. As soon as the Healer opened the door, Daryl pushed his way inside. "She's hurtin'," he said. "I think it's her baby. You gotta help her."_

_Thorne's eyes widened as he realised who his patient was._

_"Denise," he shouted, quickly clearing a space on his dining table, and indicating to Daryl to rest Carol down. "I need partridgeberry, black haw, and cramp bark. Quickly!"_

_A familiar looking young blonde girl of about fourteen or fifteen nodded and ran away. She returned less than a minute later, jars of various herbs in her arms. She began spooning measurements of these into a stone bowl, and grinding them together with a pestle._

_Daryl stood to one side as Thorne began to run his hands over Carol's stomach. The whimpering sounds she made as he pressed into her broke Daryl's heart._

_As he continued his examination, Thorne half turned towards Daryl. "You aren't the father." he said. It wasn't a question._

_It took Daryl a moment to realise Thorne was speaking to him. "Naw," he replied. "It ain't me."_

_"Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave," said Thorne._

_"But—"_

_"It's most unorthodox to have an unrelated...friend...stay in the room," said Thorne. "And I'm sure she would be happier if the father of her child was here with her. Perhaps you could make yourself useful and find him?"_

_"No!" cried Carol._

_"I ain't leavin' her side," said Daryl._

_The young blonde girl, Denise, handed her father a concoction made from the various herbs, and with Thorne's help, Carol sat upright to drink this. But halfway through she cried out, the glass falling from her hands and shattering on the floor._

_"She's losing it," said Thorne, and he turned once more to Daryl. "Please," he said. "I need you to wait outside."_

_Despite his protests he was ushered back out of the front door, and paced before the healer's house like a caged animal. Every now and then he heard a particularly loud cry and he longed to break the damn door down just to hold and comfort her._

_Eventually the noise quieted, and this caused him even more worry than before. What if something had happened to her? The thought made him dizzy with fear, and just as he was about to barge in and demand to see her, the front door opened. It was the young girl, Denise._

_"She'll be ok," she said._

_"You sure?" asked Daryl, to which Denise nodded, but couldn't seem to quite meet his eyes. "And… the kid?"_

_Very slowly Denise shook her head. "Dad did everything he could, but… she lost the baby. But she's going to be ok. She's resting now, and dad won't let anyone in to see her, but she asked me to tell you before you go, that you're a good man. She said you might not have heard it enough."_

_He collapsed on the porch, his head in his hands. "If I'da just got her here sooner…"_

_"It wouldn't have helped," said Denise. "You did everything you could. I'm really sorry."_

_He glanced at her, and suddenly realised that he knew where he recognised her from. Her twin brother was last year's tribute. He had made it down to the final eight, and so naturally she had been interviewed on television. He had been stabbed in his sleep by the eventual winner, a career from District 1._

_"Thanks," mumbled Daryl. "And I'm sorry about your brother."_

"Me too," she added with a sad smile, before she went back indoors and left Daryl alone.


	4. The Interview

Following the debacle on day one of training, Daryl determined that he would keep his head down, and not allow anyone, not even the asshole from District 8, to rile him up again. In the morning, Sophia offered him a shy smile and stuck by him again; it was clear that Carol had spoken to her and eased her fear of him. By the end of the third day, he was pretty confident that Sophia had learned some decent survival basics. If they should get separated, and if it took him more than a day to find her, she should be ok, as long as she stayed clear of other tributes.

He had been trying to decide on their best strategy, and as much as he hated it, all of the supplies and weapons they would need were going to be at the Cornucopia. He would have to enter the bloodbath at the very start of the Games to give them even a slim chance of making it to the end. And If Sophia ran directly away from her platform, towards whatever cover she could find, then should he survive the bloodbath, Daryl would be able to track her and protect her.

It was madness, but it was their only chance. It was _Sophia's_ only chance.

And it was all he could think about as he sat with all the other tributes waiting for his individual assessment.

Time slowed to a standstill as, one at a time, the tributes from each District were summoned before the Gamesmakers to try and impress them. After several hours, a Capitol official with a clipboard came out to the waiting area and shouted, "Daryl Dixon!"

"Good luck," whispered Sophia.

"You too, kid."

Daryl entered the gym and was annoyed to see that none of the Gamesmakers seemed to be paying much attention; they were in a high-up booth overlooking the entire gym, but even from his lowly position, Daryl could see the sumptuous feast that had been spread out for them, and they were far more interested in that than in what Daryl was doing. Damn Capitol assholes never stopped eating.

He swallowed his anger and grabbed the crossbow from the stand, then hit the simulation start button. He struck every single target, both moving and stationary, until they ceased to appear. In dismay, he looked up at the Gamesmakers. They were still all far too interested in the feast laid out before them and not a single one of them had seen what he had done. They had already watched twenty other tributes and were clearly bored, or drunk, or both.

Daryl picked up one of the smallest weights from the bench, and hurled it up towards where the Gamesmakers were talking. "Hey!" he shouted, as the weight hit a forcefield in front of them. It sparkled and crackled, and the weight fell back to the ground with an echoing crack. "You gonna do your goddamn job, or am I gonna have to climb up there and shoot one of ya?"

Several of the Gamesmaker's stepped forward, intrigue suddenly apparent on their faces. But it was too little too late. Daryl threw the crossbow to the ground, and raised his hand towards them in a rude gesture. "Fuck all of ya," he shouted, before storming from the gym.

Later that evening, as his team were gathered on the eleventh floor having dinner, he couldn't bring himself to admit what he had done. The thought of the combined anger and disappointment in Carol's eyes if he admitted that he may have sabotaged his own chances, and therefore Sophia's too, made him hold his counsel, and when asked how the assessment had gone, he merely mumbled and said, "Ok."

The thought of the televised scores, and what he had done to the Gamesmakers destroyed his appetite, and while everyone else devoured steaks served with a rich wine sauce, Daryl was barely able to stomach even a plain roll.

As soon as they started to announce the scores Carol moved closer to Sophia, and slipped her arm around her. Most of the scores were as expected; an eight for the male tribute from 1, and even Lizzie had scored a seven. Eleven for the maniac from 2, eight for his District partner. The angry young man from 7 scored nine. Most of the others scored fives or sixes.

Finally it was time to announce District 11. Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl could see Carol hold Sophia a little tighter. He prepared himself for the scathing disappointment from everyone when he was given a terrible score for his outburst. His scowling face appeared on the television screens, with the number '10' beside him. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and felt someone's hand clap him on the shoulder. For the tiniest of moments he imagined himself victorious, making it out of the Games alive. Somewhere in the hopeless fantasy he pictured Carol by his side, a safe and happy future for the pair of them. And then Sophia's picture, together with the number '5' was on the screen, and the tentative dream shattered immediately.

He didn't wait to be congratulated and instead stalked off to his room, collapsing on his bed. A ten was a far better score than he had anticipated. Indeed, it was the second best score anyone had been given. Which meant that they were either genuinely impressed, or that they had decided to make an example of him and make him a target.

All too soon, the part of the preparation process that Daryl had dreaded the most rolled around - the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. He hated being the center of attention, and the thought of being interviewed before a live audience, to be televised across Panem, filled him with almost as much dread as the Games themselves.

For his interview, Lillith had dressed him almost entirely in black. Black suit, black shirt and tie. The only concession to color was the faint silver of the embroidered wings on the back of his jacket. "It's a symbol people recognise and associate with you," explained Lillith. "It'd be foolish to abandon it now."

He paid little attention to the other tributes, especially after Negan, the tribute from 2, had explained in excruciating detail how he had wanted to be in the Games his entire life, and how he couldn't wait to get to the arena and get started.

"Sick piece of shit," Daryl muttered under his breath, as Lillith added some kind of product to his hair to make it sit precisely how she wanted.

"He certainly does seem a little over enthusiastic," replied Lillith.

"Why should you give a shit?" Daryl asked coldly. "You're part of this freak show."

"I live here," she said indifferently. "That doesn't mean I have to love what happens. Quite the opposite, in fact. There," she added, as she ran her fingers through his fringe one final time. "You're camera ready."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I've done everything I can to make you presentable."

"You know that ain't what I'm talkin' about."

But Lillith merely smiled her infuriating little smile and refused to answer his question. "Once you've sat down, I don't want you to stand up again until you're ready to leave. That's important. Do you understand?"

"Why?"

"Something spectacular," she winked then walked away, leaving him alone.

One by one the tributes walked out on stage to be greeted by Caesar, and as always he brought out the best in each and every one of them. And before long, it was Sophia's turn.

She had been dressed in a summery, white dress, and a single white Cherokee rose was woven into her hair. She was innocence personified.

She was clearly nervous when Caesar introduced her, but he spoke to her in a kind and soothing voice, much as a beloved uncle. Everything that had happened so far in the Capitol had given Daryl reason to hate it more, and this was almost the final straw. He clenched his jaw tight as he stood to the side of the stage and watched.

"Tell me, Sophia," said Caesar. "It must be very scary, going into the Games with all these adults. How are you feeling?"

"I would be scared, if I didn't have Mr Daryl with me," she answered.

"Oh really?" said Caesar, moving closer with interest. "So you already know him?"

"My momma likes him," said Sophia with a shy smile. "She has done for ages."

There was a loud gasp from the audience, and Caesar waved at them to calm down. "Are you saying that your District partner is in a relationship with one of our beloved Victors?" he asked, grinning.

"Not exactly," said Sophia. "But she likes him. And I think he likes her too. And momma said I can trust him. He's going to look after me, so I can be safe."

"Ladies and gentlemen, isn't this the most exciting thing! So, Sophia, am I understanding this correctly? That your District partner is going to get you through the Games, and then sacrifice himself so that you might win?"

"That's what my momma told me."

"Well, if that isn't true love, I don't know what is!"

"I know," said Sophia. "I think… I think if this hadn't happened then maybe one day they would have been together."

Daryl turned towards Carol. She held his gaze, tears swimming in her eyes but didn't look away.

_It was no mean feat, sneaking past the Peacekeepers at night. But Daryl had their routes and shift changes memorized, and with careful timing, it was possible to get past them and out into the orchards at night. And at night, with no people to scare them off, the orchards were usually rife with wildlife._

_The crossbow—hidden in a box buried by the twisted roots of an old oak tree on the outer edge of one of the densest orchards in the District—had been his father's, and had been passed down, generation to generation. It had originally belonged to and been hidden by a rebel fighter in the Dark Days. Giving it to him, and teaching him to shoot, had been about the only decent thing his son-of-a-bitch daddy had ever done for him._

_And so, most nights, after sneaking past the Peacekeepers, he would retrieve the crossbow and bag a couple of squirrels, maybe a rabbit or a pigeon, hide the crossbow, and return home. The extra food had kept himself and Merle much stronger than most of their neighbors, especially those fool enough to have kids of their own._

_He had recently turned twenty-seven, and the spring air was unseasonably warm. Above him, the night sky stretched away into infinity; the black velvet of space was pin-pricked by the light of a hundred billion stars, and the full moon cast a silvery spectral glow over the blossom-laden trees. Every now and then a gentle breeze meandered past, gathering handfuls of the blossoms from the tops of the trees, and allowed them to drift lazily to the ground like enormous snowflakes._

_Daryl sat perfectly still underneath one of the trees. He had come out here to hunt, but tonight the gentle stillness was echoed by the animals too. So far he had neither seen nor heard a thing. But it didn't matter. Tomorrow was Sunday; the only day he wasn't expected to work. He could stay out here all night and sleep all day tomorrow if necessary._

_The sound of twigs snapping and something moving through the undergrowth shook him from his reverie immediately. Only a human would make that much noise around here._

_In absolute silence he leapt to his feet, pressing his back up against the tree trunk. He held his breath as the footsteps came closer; if he had been found by Peacekeepers there was no way out at all; he'd be lucky to escape with his life._

_Very tentatively he peered around the edge of the tree, and nearly collapsed with relief at who he saw. It was Carol, and she was walking alone among the trees._

_He stepped out from his hiding place to confront her._

_"What are ya doin' out here at night?"_

_"Shit," she gasped, clutching at her chest for a moment. "You frightened the life out of me."_

_"You shouldn't be out here. It ain't safe."_

_"And what about you?" she asked. "If it's not safe for me, it's not for you either."_

_He indicated the crossbow with a nod of his head. "Man's gotta eat. What's your excuse?"_

_"What makes you think it's not the same for me?"_

_"You tryin' to tell me Victors can't afford to buy food?"_

_She laughed gently. "Ok," she said. "You got me. I'm not hunting. Do you mind if I join you though?"_

_He held her gaze for a long time before answering. "Fine," he said at last. "Ain't gonna catch nothin' though. There was nothin' here before you showed up and started makin' all this noise, gonna be less than nothin' now."_

_"Then I guess you'll have to make do with nothing but my company."_

_In silence they walked deeper into the orchards, to where the trees were older and sturdier. Carol placed her hand against the trunk of one of the larger trees and a wistful smile crossed her face. "It's been years since I climbed a tree," she said. "I never thought I'd miss it, growing up and being forced to climb these things every day. But now…"_

_She didn't think twice, and shimmied skillfully up the trunk, before hopping over to one of the larger branches. "Come and join me," she called down to him._

_He looked around briefly. There was still no sign of any prey, so he shouldered his crossbow and deftly climbed up beside her. She was sitting on the wide branch, dangling her legs over the edge, and he sat down beside her._

_It was strangely magical. The outside world was hidden from view by the thick blossoms that surrounded them. The occasional ray of moonlight penetrated the heavy canopy, and the warm air carried the heady blossom scent on a playful breeze._

_"This is pretty romantic," she said after a while._

_Daryl looked towards her; she was softly illuminated by the the moonlight, and was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was right. It was romantic, and the idea that he couldn't simply reach towards her, hold her, and kiss her caused a physical ache in his chest. "Shut up," he mumbled. "We shouldn't be up here."_

_"Wait, Daryl. Let's just stay for a little while at least?"_

_For her, he would do anything, and he nodded, tensing as she shifted a little closer. She rested her head against his shoulder and let out the faintest of sighs._

_A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. Was she even vaguely aware of the effect she had on him? Did she know how unfair it was, for her to be this close to him, but not be able to hold her, to comfort her the way he wanted?_

_Why had she chosen Ed? What possible reason did she have for being with him? For staying with him? And why, why did she continue to come into his life, to show him kindness, and dangle this unreachable hope in front of him before snatching it away?_

_A scurrying noise caught his attention. There was an animal running around below them, and Daryl was determined to catch it. "We oughta get outta here," he said in a low voice. "I'll go down first."_

_"Is that a promise?" she chuckled._

_"Stop," he said, suddenly serious. "I mean it. You can't... You can't say shit like that. You can't keep on givin' me hope and takin' it away."_

_"I'm so sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to… it's never been my intention to hurt you. But maybe you're right. The hope you give me hurts too."_

_"The hope I give you?"_

_"Yes."_

_It was too much. They both knew that she was miserable with her husband. They both knew what he did to her._

_"Why?" he asked her. "Why don't you leave him?"_

_"I can't," she said. "I can't risk it. And I can't risk being with you."_

_"What does that even mean?"_

_"I sincerely hope that you never have to find out. You're right. We should go."_

_Daryl descended from the safe haven of the tree's branches first and made sure that Carol got down safely. She pointed behind him into the darkness, and Daryl immediately saw what she had seen. Raising his crossbow, he fired an arrow, stopping the possum in its tracks._

_"Guess this wasn't a wasted night after all," he muttered, as he grabbed his kill and stomped back to town, leaving her on her own._

"A round of applause for Sophia Peletier!" Caesar Flickerman's voice cut through his thoughts, and he glanced over his shoulder to where Sophia was waving at the audience and walking off the stage to rapturous applause.

"Carol…" he said quietly, but she shook her head at him.

"Not now," she whispered.

"Please," he replied.

"And next up from District 11, please welcome to the stage, Daryl Dixon!"

It didn't matter that Caesar Flickerman had announced his name. This was more important. He waited patiently for her to talk but she physically turned him around and pushed him onto the stage, and in a daze he stumbled onto the podium.

The applause for him was, if possible, even more tumultuous. Flickerman grasped his hand and shook it warmly, inviting him to sit down.

"Well, Daryl, firstly let me congratulate you on your score of ten. It's always interesting to see when the outlying Districts become favorites. Can you give us any clues as to what you did to obtain such a high score?"

"No," he answered, fidgeting slightly in his chair. Carol was stood to the side of the stage, and he couldn't tear his eyes from her.

"Ahhh, a man of mystery!" said Caesar jovially. "And speaking of mysteries...that certainly was a most revealing conversation with young Sophia! Would you care to elaborate on anything?"

"No."

Caesar waited expectantly for just a moment, but it very quickly became clear that Daryl had nothing further to say on the subject. He cleared his throat very briefly and attempted a different tactic. "Well, you've definitely made an impression in the Capitol with your look. I think we owe your stylists a round of applause. I do believe you've already garnered quite a few fans, and indeed, if we look around the audience tonight I can see several people sporting angel wings!"

The lights on stage were blinding, and he squinted past them to look out into the audience. Caesar hadn't been lying. He could see at least five or six women wearing ridiculously cumbersome feathered wings on their back. They all waved and blew him kisses. At the side of the stage he could see Cane and Durian urging him on, and he raised his hand in an awkward wave towards the audience. The screams and cheers that came from them were deafening.

"But I'm sorry ladies," he said, waving them down and signalling for calm, "for it appears that you mustn't get too attached. Our Mr Dixon appears to be every bit of what his angel wings proclaim him to be."

He could feel himself getting warmer and more and more uncomfortable under the hot studio lights and the gaze of the Panem audience, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Tell me, Daryl. Why are you doing it?"

"Why?" repeated Daryl. "'Cause this shit you've got goin' on, it ain't right. It ain't right sendin' kids off to die every year, but stickin' them in an arena with a load of adults? Ones sayin' that they can't wait to get in there and kill them? There ain't no justification for shit like that. This ain't about maintainin' peace or whatever else shit you wanna say. This is just... _wrong_. And I ain't lettin' a little girl die that way."

He didn't care that his allocated time wasn't up. As far as he was concerned, the interview was over. He stood, and as he did so, every light in the studio was immediately extinguished. A split second later there was an enormous flash of white light, and a gasp arose from the studio audience. He had no idea what precisely had happened, and could only assume it was, as Lillith had said, "something spectacular."

The studio lights flickered back into life, and Caesar was before him, slightly open mouthed. "Daryl Dixon, District 11, ladies and gentleman!"

He didn't wait to be dismissed and hurried off the stage, unable to look the rest of his team in the eye. Couldn't bear the inevitable anger and disappointment at him for fucking up at the last minute. And so he stormed straight to the elevators and rode up to the eleventh floor. He'd deal with the repercussions soon enough.


	5. The Anticipation

He tore off the suit jacket the moment the elevator doors opened, and threw it to the floor. The silk shirt followed a second later. In his private quarters he found his old clothes, the ones he'd been wearing on the day he arrived in the Capitol, and slipped them on. The familiar and comforting weight of Merle's leather vest grounded him, and he took several deep breaths before walking over towards the windowsill. Slowly he calmed, and perched on the edge to watch the Capitol below.

He sensed Carol's presence in the room before he saw her. "I know you're gonna tell me I fucked up," he said.

"I wasn't going to say any such thing," she replied. "I was going to thank you."

"For what?"

"Causing a stir. Sticking up for my daughter. Sticking up for every child who has ever been put through this."

"Ain't gonna do no good when they send a bomb down to blow me up on the first night."

"I don't think you'll have anything like that to worry about," she said. "You've caused a stir. You make for damn good television. That's all they care about in the end."

"What happened?"

"When you stood up? After the lights went out, it looked like an angel took flight just above you. It was so bright, it burned into everyone's eyes. I can still see it when I close mine."

He sighed heavily, and turned back towards the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. In the streets below people were partying and celebrating. It was a sickening sight. "Sophia ok?" he asked her.

"Scared, of course. But I've given her something to ease her anxiety and help her sleep. She'll need to be well rested for the morning."

The sound of a fanfare from the street below echoed up to the top of the Training Center. Something to ease anxiety sounded like a dream. "You got another one of them smokes?" he asked her.

She reached into a pocket and handed him the entire pack as well as a lighter. He took one from the packet and lit it, inhaling deeply. The burning sensation in his lungs was quickly followed by a heady, dizzy high, and he leaned back against the frame just as a hundred brightly coloured fireworks exploded outside the Training Center. From the street below came the sound of the Capitol citizens cheering louder than ever.

"You never get used to it," said Carol, as she sat down opposite him. "Seeing them like this."

"I ain't gonna have to," he replied.

She looked away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to sound insensitive."

"You didn't."

She fell silent and crossed her arms across her chest, resting back against the windowframe. His mind searched for something to say. Something comforting. Something reassuring. Something funny, even, just to bring a smile to her face. But there was nothing.

"I want you to know something," she spoke into the silence. "Whatever happens over the Games—"

"Stop."

"No. Whatever happens, I don't blame you. And I don't want you to blame yourself."

"You're gettin' your little girl back."

"Please, Daryl. Don't make me promises you can't keep," she said, fighting back a sob. "Just know that… I don't blame you. That's all. What Sophia said… if we'd had more time, or… if this world was softer, less cruel…" She stopped herself and swallowed heavily. "I pushed you away for a reason. I never wanted to. But I had to."

He kept his counsel. What on earth could he possibly say to make either of them feel any better?

"Anyway," said Carol, her voice breaking, "I just had to tell you that… I don't want to lose you either."

"You ain't got a choice," he said.

"I know," she sobbed. "And that's killing me. You're telling me you're bringing me back my daughter, and I can never, ever repay you for that but… " She paused, and it looked as if every word caused her immense pain. "But if you can't save her, I want you to make damn well sure that you're the one coming home."

She stood up to leave, although there was a look in her eyes that said she wanted nothing more than to stay.

"I won't see you tomorrow morning," she said. " You'll be taken to the arena first thing, and I'll have other duties. So…"

She hesitated for the briefest of seconds then bent down towards him, her hands cradling his face. Her lips brushed against his, softly at first, and then with increasing desperation.

Her kiss took him by surprise and it took a while for him to respond. When his mind and body finally caught up, his hand wound into her soft curls just as she slipped her tongue past the seam of his lips, and his free hand snaked around her waist, pulling her into his lap.

He could feel her breath hitching, could taste the saltiness of her tears. He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. Very tentatively, he wiped at her cheek with the pad of his thumb and whispered, "Stay."

"I can't, Daryl."

"Please."

He could see the dilemma in her eyes, the battle between what her heart wanted, and what her brain told her was right. And then, slowly, her resolve crumbled and at long last, instead of answering, she captured his lips once more with her own. Her kiss was sweeter this time, less demanding, and he gingerly placed his hand on the back of her neck to hold her steady. There was a faint remnant on her lips of the sweet, rich taste of chocolate, and as he gently pressed his tongue against hers, a fire ignited deep within his belly. She hummed into him when he found the confidence to deepen the kiss, and as his fingers wound into the curls at the nape of her neck, her hands dropped to the front of his shirt, and she began desperately tearing at the buttons.

He broke the kiss and stared at her, entirely breathless as she continued to undo his shirt. He couldn't quite comprehend that this was real, that this was actually happening. As if to shake him from his reverie, Carol took his hands in her own and brought them to her lips. She kissed them reverently, and then placed them on the front of her own shirt. The half-smile that crossed her lips was her consent and he immediately began to fumble with the fastenings.

She shrugged the garment off her shoulders and stood up before him, pulling him up as well. As his eyes roamed endlessly over the expanse of her skin, she pushed his shirt and vest away from his shoulders, dropping them to the ground.

Time seemed to stand still as she took a step closer to him, and he held his breath as she reached up to touch his face. His eyes fluttered closed as she gently ran her fingers down his cheek. For far too long he had been starved of human closeness and affection, and the moment her hand dropped to rest just over his heart he physically shuddered. He could count the number of days it had left to beat on his fingers, and in that moment the realisation hit him with full force.

His head fell forward and he buried his face in the crook of her neck. Since his name had come from the Reaping Ball, he had not once allowed himself to cry, but he could feel the tears now, tiny pin pricks behind his eyes that threatened to fall. "Let go," she whispered into him, and her permission was all he needed. With a racking breath, his grief and fear spilled from him, and Carol made no demands of him, but allowed his anguish to run its course.

Finally, he quieted, and Carol's arms wrapped around him even tighter. The softness of her skin against his body was an anchor—the only real thing in the world—and he pressed his lips against her neck in a desperate attempt to ground himself.

That realization of his impending death struck him once more. The chance to be this close to her would never, ever come again and so he had to take the opportunity whilst he still could. His lips were still pressed against her neck, and he slowly trailed a series of kisses back up the slender lines, until he found her lips once more.

Without breaking the kiss, she began to maneuver them both towards the bed. It was awkward and clumsy, and when his legs hit the bed, he fell backwards, gazing up at her in awe as she straddled his lap.

For a brief moment she hesitated, then in a deft movement she reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, dropping it to the floor beside them.

All the air was knocked from his lungs as he gazed on her naked flesh. This was a moment he had dreamed about for as long as he could remember, and dammit, he was going to make it as perfect for her as it was for him. Very slowly, almost as if he were afraid to startle her, he reached towards one soft, delicate breast, stopping just short of touching it. He made eye contact, silently asking her permission, and she smiled and nodded.

As soon as he touched her, her back arched and she let out a soft, keening sound deep from the back of her throat. Her rosy nipple had puckered to a hard peak and it grazed across his palm, a stark contrast to the rest of the soft mound. He gently squeezed and massaged, rolling the hardened peak between his thumb and forefinger, and ducked his head to her other breast.

He kissed her tenderly, encouraged by the mewls and sighs she kept making. And when she placed her hands on the back of his head and whispered his name over and over like a mantra, it awoke a different kind of hunger in him. One that could only be sated by her, and by her satisfaction.

"Carol," he said in a low voice, enjoying the feel of her name on his lips. "I want… I wanna make you happy."

"You too," she replied.

His heart was pounding furiously, almost painfully, in his chest, as if to prove to him that it was still going, that he was still alive, for now at least. And while she was with him, he would make the most of that life. If they'd had more time, if they'd had a future together, a whole life, he would have been happy spending that life exploring her, finding out how best to pleasure her, what he could do to make her smile, to make her laugh, to make her cry out his name... But time was not on their side, not at all. "You'll have to show me," he admitted. "I ain't… I mean, there's been women, but… it ain't never been like this, and...I need ya to show me how to make you feel good."

Her blue eyes were shining as she leaned in towards him and claimed his lips with her own. She quickly clambered off of him and kicked off her shoes then unbuttoned her pants, pushing them and her underwear down over hips in a single motion.

Daryl's jaw was slack with disbelief. She was utter perfection. His eyes travelled from the elegance of her collarbones, visible below her freckled skin, down over the gentle slopes of her breasts, her taut and toned abdomen, and lower to the apex of her thighs, to the tight, dark curls covering her. His tongue darted out to lick his suddenly dry lips as she took hold of his hands and pulled him to his feet.

"Now you," she said.

He nodded briefly before unbuttoning his pants. Carol stepped forward and helped him out of them, pausing only briefly to take in the sight of his erect cock as she pulled his boxers down over his hips. Over the past week he had been naked in front of more people than he had been in his entire life, but only now did he feel entirely stripped bare, as if the whole of him was on display. And while he felt nervous, there was none of the embarrassment or self-consciousness that he had felt in front of the prep team or stylists.

She stepped into his waiting arms and pressed her body flush against his. She felt so slim and delicate in his arms that he was almost afraid of holding her too tightly. But his fears were allayed as she squeezed him with all of her strength; she may have been small, but she was a powerful woman. It was one of the many things he adored about her.

She smoothed her hands up and down his back several times, then looked up at him. There was a tenderness to her look that took his breath away, and he ducked his head to kiss her once more, but she broke away sooner than he had expected.

"Here," she said. "On the bed."

She sat him upright against the bed's cushioned headboard, and then rested her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her once more, dropping his head to rest against her shoulder. Her skin smelled so sweet, like vanilla and cooked sugar, and he felt that he would be happy to stay that way forever, just holding on to her, safe and warm and together.

But Carol had other ideas. She rested her hand over the top of his, and moved them both lower as she spread her legs open. Their breath hitched simultaneously as she moved his fingers along her slit, then as she encouraged him to circle her clit she moaned and leaned back against him, releasing his hand so that she could grip hold of his thighs.

Her wet heat sent his pulse racing, and he pulled his free arm around her a little tighter, as he dragged his lips across the back of her neck and shoulders. His hunger for her was building every second, and he hoped that the deep flush across her sweat-sheened skin meant that his hunger was matched by hers. Suddenly she arched back against his increasing hardness as the grip on his thighs became almost painful, and his name fell from her lips in a desperate cry.

Her breathing was heavy and he could feel her pulse racing in her chest, syncopating against his own.

"Thank you," she choked. "That was… thank you."

Words failed him. The sight of her coming undone in his arms was the greatest treasure he had known, and he closed his eyes, fixing the beautiful image firmly in his mind; something to bring him comfort in the hard days to come.

She turned around and straddled him, raising her eyes to meet his. He could see the want and desire that matched his own, and he shuddered slightly as her fingers splayed across his skin.

"I need you," she said, her voice low and seductive.

His mouth was dry, and he still couldn't find any words. She seemed to understand, and held him steady as she sank down onto him, covering him in her soft, wet heat.

He was dying by slow degrees; desperate to hold back and make it last but knowing it would be impossible. The glorious friction she created as she rocked her hips over him fulfilled every fantasy he had ever had. Control deserted him as he bucked his hips instinctively up into her, and he was beyond thought, beyond anything but allowing the pleasure that gripped him to fill his body, heart, and soul.

Carol, his perfect Carol, was above him, that same ecstasy he experienced searing an almost pained expression on her face. She braced her hands on his chest as he held on to her hips, matching each of her movements with one of his own.

He knew he wasn't going to last long. He managed to utter a guttural warning just before he thrust upwards into her, a jolting, white-hot rush that cleansed him of all the pain and fear and anxiety. The world dissolved around him and nothing existed except the two of them. Just two souls clinging to a sense of comfort in a harsh and cruel world.

She climbed off of him and together they lay back on the bed, her head on his shoulder, the only sounds in the room that of their own labored breathing. "You gonna stay now?" he asked her.

She tilted her head, and placed a gentle kiss on his chest, just over where his heart was still pounding furiously. "I'll stay," she answered quietly.

He drew his arms tighter around her, and despite the worry of what was to come, he was happy in the knowledge he had experienced at least one perfect moment in his damned life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely trio of betas, na-bruma-leve, lovesdaryl, and saedhriel. And I hope you enjoyed this little moment of peace before the Games begin....


	6. The Hunger Games Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Saedhriel, na-bruma-leve, and lovesdaryl for being such an awesome trio of betas :)
> 
> And I can't remember who suggested it, but one of you suggested I add a list of tributes - and who is still alive - at the end of each chapter, to make it easier to keep track. So you'll find that at the end of the chapter. (Dead tributes are in italics)
> 
> Now, let the games begin. May the odds be ever in your favor!

It was still dark out when he was awoken by movement in his room. Carol was sitting up in bed, her head in her hands. Very cautiously he reached out towards her and ran his hands down the expanse of her naked back.

She half turned towards him and said, "I have to go. I have to say...goodbye… to Sophia. You should try and get some more sleep while you still can."

"Aint gonna get no more now," he said. "'sides, I slept better last night than in years."

The slightest of half-smiles lifted the corners of her mouth. "Same," she said.

"Shoulda been doin' that for a long time."

She turned away from him, but was unable to hide the look of guilt that crossed her face.

"Carol?" he said in a soft tone. "Last night you said that you'd pushed me away for a reason. Why?"

There was a long, drawn-out pause before she spoke. "I can't tell you, Daryl. Please trust me. I promise, if I…if I see you again… I'll tell you."

Daryl watched in silence as she dressed, dreading the inevitable moment when she would walk away from him and leave him alone. He had waited his entire life to be with her; one evening, no matter how perfect, simply wasn't enough.

All too soon, she climbed on top of him, fully clothed, and pressed a long, sensual kiss to his lips. "Stay safe in there, ok?" she whispered to him.

"I will."

"I know," she replied. "You've got nine lives. I remember."

"You'll remind Sophia of our plan, yeah?"

"To run and hide. You'll get supplies and track her. Protect her."

He nodded, swallowing the anxiety that rose within him.

"I'll remind her. And thank you once again."

She placed one last, lingering kiss to him, then dried her eyes on the back of her hand and left him alone. He fell back against his pillows and turned towards the slight indentation she had made on his bed as she slept there. His fingers traced the lines up and down, and he closed his eyes, picturing her beside him, on top of him, giving herself to him...

A sudden, harsh rapping at his door shook him from his reverie. The sun had barely risen, its cold light flooding his room. He must have fallen asleep after all...

"You have twenty minutes, Daryl!" came Hestia's grating voice. "Don't let me down! We've a big day ahead of us!"

He forced himself up and out of bed, the vanilla scent of Carol's skin still lingering on the sheets. He stepped out of the shower just as Lillith arrived and dressed him in plain cotton pants and a t-shirt.

"We don't know what you've been given to wear until we arrive at the arena itself," she said. "It's so that you don't get any clues about the arena prematurely."

"Yeah, 'cause knowin' what kind of hell they're throwin' us into makes all the difference."

"According to those in charge, yes it does," she replied, as she glanced at her watch. "We need to go. You don't want to be late."

He snorted softly at this piece of news. "Why? Do ya think they might kill me?"

"They could certainly make things very difficult for you. Follow me."

Lillith led him up to the roof of the Training Center, where a hovercraft was waiting. As soon as he and Lillith boarded, the hovercraft took off, and a Capitol lackey grabbed hold of his arm. Daryl tried to snatch his arm away, but the lackey had a furiously strong grip. "I need to insert your tracker," he explained. "So that you can always be found in the arena. And it hurts far less if you're still."

Daryl eyed the enormous needle in the young man's hands nervously then held his arm out steady. The lackey injected him quickly then disappeared through to the hovercraft's cockpit. Daryl watched him go and then collapsed into a chair beside a window. He gazed outside at the scenery racing past, miles below them.

"How long's this gonna take?" he asked.

"I don't know," Lillith answered. "I know as much about the arena and its whereabouts as you."

He lapsed into silence and absently chewed on his thumbnail for a while, constantly trying to force the dread that threatened to overwhelm him back down. After a few minutes, the lackey reappeared pushing a trolley laden with food. Daryl looked at the spread and glanced away, fighting a wave of nausea.

"You should try and eat something," said Lillith. "You don't know when you'll next get the chance."

She was right. He might not eat again for days. He picked up one of the sweet marzipan pastries that he had first tried on the train to the Capitol and forced it down. But he was so nervous that it was tasteless in his mouth.

After about an hour, the windows suddenly blacked out, and Daryl felt his stomach lurch.

"We gettin' close?" he asked Lillith.

"We are," she confirmed. "We'll be there in the next quarter of an hour. Are you sure you've eaten enough?"

He nodded in silence. If he forced anything else down, he'd likely puke it straight back up.

Finally the hovercraft landed, and he was taken straight down into the catacombs beneath the arena. Although very few tributes from District 11 were still alive to talk about it, this area was colloquially known amongst the Districts as 'The Stockyards' — the place animals were sent to before they go to slaughter.

No other tributes were in sight as Lillith led him to his changing area. The complete lack of other people was terribly unnerving, and by the time they reached their changing area, Daryl began to wonder if they were the only people there.

"This normal?" he asked. "Seein' no one else?"

"It is," she replied. "Each area has its own entrance. It's so that there is no chance of sabotage before the Games start."

"Makes sense, I suppose."

His clothing for the games had already been laid out, and Lillith looked over it with him. Thick, heavy cotton pants, a sleeveless vest, a cotton shirt over the top, and a lined leather jacket, with heavy boots.

"Looks like you'll be dealing with some pretty rough terrain," said Lillith. "I wouldn't expect anywhere soft to lay your head down at night. And you can probably expect those nights to get pretty cold, too."

She helped him dress, and asked him to move around to show her that everything fit properly, and then he collapsed into a chair to wait for the inevitable. His mind was filled with images of Carol, and they flickered between the sensual, passionate side that she had shown him last night, and the desperate, worried, tearful mother. He wouldn't get to see either version of her ever again. Or hear her laugh, be embarrassed by her flirting, or drown in the clear blue of her eyes…

"Please prepare for launch."

The pleasant female voice echoed around the room, shaking him from his thoughts and causing the bottom to drop out of Daryl's stomach. This was it.

He looked up at Lillith offering him her hand, and he took it gratefully.

She pulled him into an awkward hug and said, "Good luck. Both to you and Sophia."

He had no words for her and just nodded, certain she would be able to feel the furious tattoo of his heart on the inside of his ribcage, as it desperately tried to escape.

There was an enormous glass tube in the room, and a door swung silently open. Lillith directed him to stand inside the tube, and as soon as he did so, the door swung closed. His lungs felt suddenly airless.

In front of him Lillith stepped a little closer. She placed her hand against the glass and said, "Breathe."

He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. The platform below his feet shuddered and then, with a wave of cold dread rushing through him, he began to rise. Seconds later he was plunged into absolute darkness, then a pin prick of light appeared above him. Slowly it began to grow, until Daryl could see the overcast sky above him, and a moment later he was back above ground.

His immediate impression was that all color had been drained from the world, leaving it with nothing but grey. All around them were dilapidated and half destroyed buildings, all of them only one or two stories high, and not a scrap of green could be seen anywhere. Projected in the sky was a digital display showing the number 60. The moment he looked at it, it began to count down.

He forced the rising fear back down and looked at his surroundings to try and orient himself. In the middle of the abandoned town centre, Daryl could see the cornucopia, sunlight reflecting off of its silver surface in a blinding display. He quickly scanned the mouth of it, and amongst all the other weapons and supplies, he could see a crossbow and a brace of bolts leaning up against a supply crate. The merest hint of a smile crossed his face; he clearly hadn't pissed off the Gamesmakers as much as he thought. Determination coursed through his veins. He _had_ to get hold of it.

Next he searched around for Sophia, and found her five platforms to his right. He nodded at her to let her know that he was still sticking to their plan. He would go straight to the cornucopia, grab some supplies, and then he would find her.

The countdown said that there were thirty seconds to go, and he let out a deep, slow, calming breath, when from over on the other side of the arena, he heard an enormous explosion.

"A reminder to all tributes. You must stay on your platforms until the countdown reaches zero!"

Had someone tried to make a run for it? Or perhaps they had opted out, ended their life on their own terms? He quickly looked around at the other Tributes. The woman from District 8 no longer appeared to be on her platform.

The countdown seemed to slow to a halt as it reached the final ten seconds. Daryl watched the numbers slowly tick past until finally the counter read 'zero,' and a klaxxon echoed around the arena.

He moved without thinking, running as fast as he could towards the cornucopia. Out of the corner of his eye he could see other tributes gaining ground on him, and he willed his legs to move him faster.

And then he was there, at the mouth of the shining cornucopia. He grabbed the crossbow and the nearby brace and slung them over his shoulder, and grabbed hold of a canvas rucksack by his feet. It didn't matter what the damn thing contained; any supplies would be useful. But as he turned to escape the ensuing bloodbath, the male tribute from 8 ran at him, fist raised high, a lethal-looking dagger clenched in his hands.

The asshole from 8 realised who he was facing and gave Daryl a smug smile. "Told you I'd kill you first," he taunted. But as he plunged the dagger towards him, Daryl grabbed hold of the man's wrist, stopping him just short of his chest. He forced the dagger around, and the man's eyes grew wide and fearful as he came to realize that Daryl was the stronger man, and that this was a fight he just couldn't win.

Very slowly, the man from 8 fighting against it every last second, the dagger pierced the man's chest. He made a terrible gurgling sound as his lungs filled with blood, then dropped to the floor.

Without thinking twice, Daryl took the dagger, together with another knife that rested on top of a crate near him, grabbed his other stuff, and ran from the Cornucopia as fast as possible.

He looked back over his shoulder; Negan, the man from 2, had grabbed a lethal-looking baseball bat that had been wrapped in barbed wire. He raised it high above his head, and brought it down with a resounding _crack_ on the head of an unfortunate tribute. As quickly as possible, he loaded the crossbow and aimed it directly at the man from two, releasing the shot. But at that moment, another tribute dashed in front of him, and the bolt pierced his skull instead.

"Shit," muttered Daryl, as he quickly reloaded. If he could take down Negan now, he'd feel a lot happier. But from out of nowhere, a thin, delicate knife flew past his face. He raised the bow once more to try and find who had thrown it at him. A second knife came at him, scuffing just past his arm. It was too dangerous to stick around, especially when he couldn't see the source of the knives. He had what he had come for, and now he had to make good his escape and find Sophia.

He knew the general direction that she had run in, and as he reached the line of podiums everyone had started on, he quickly glanced down at the footprints she had left in the dry, dusty earth and swore violently under his breath. Sophia should be relatively easy to track by her footprints. But in turn, they would also be easy to track by others. He just had to hope that night would fall soon, and that the inevitable hunt put on by the roaming packs of alliances would go in the opposite direction.

He quickly found Sophia's podium and ran, following the line of dusty footprints towards the first dilapidated row of buildings. They led down a crumbling alleyway and stopped just outside a closed door. Glancing around, Daryl pushed it open. He kept the crossbow raised, just in case it wasn't Sophia that he came across.

There was no light inside the building, save for a single ray of sunlight that had fought its way past a single filthy window and illuminated the dust falling through the air.

"Sophia?" he called out in a harsh whisper. "You in here?"

In the absolute silence of the abandoned building, his whisper seemed like a shout, and he held his breath for any response. Nothing.

"Sophia?" he tried again.

A footstep echoed to the left of him and he quickly turned on the spot, aiming the bow at the source of the noise.

"It's me!" came Sophia's frightened voice.

"Come 'ere," he said, lowering the crossbow and opening his arms to her. Sophia ran forward, bouncing off him a little in the dark, as he pulled her into a reassuring hug. "We can't stay here," he said. "It's way too close to all the shit happenin' back there. We gotta get out and find somewhere safer to hide."

"I don't want to go back out there," she said.

"I know, kid, but if we stay here, they're gonna find us real quick, ya know?"

He could feel her trembling in his arms, but she said, "You're not going to run away?"

"No, kid, I ain't goin' nowhere without you, ok? You just stick close."

Very cautiously he opened the door a fraction and peered out. He could hear the fighting still taking place at the cornucopia, but there was not a soul to be seen. With a deep breath, he pulled the door fully open and stepped out, crossbow raised and ready to fire, but they were still alone.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go. Before the fightin' stops."

They continued down the alleyway until it opened up into a wide street. The concrete buildings looked as though they had been bombed. Had this place been built especially for the Games? Or had it been a thriving town once upon a time, back before the Dark Days? And if that was the case, were there going to be unexploded bombs hidden below the dusty, broken floors?

He looked up and down the street. It was far too open, and there were far too many places for other people to hide. Across the street from them there was another alleyway, leading to another part of the town, and Daryl nodded towards it. They jogged across the street, and darted along the alley as quickly as possible, until it opened out into another rundown street of broken, dilapidated buildings. It was impossible to get any sense of bearing; everything looked exactly the same. But Daryl refused to stop until they had put as much distance between themselves and the fighting as possible.

After crossing the eleventh identical street, Sophia began to relax slightly. "Can we slow down?" she asked. "Please?"

Before he could answer,the roar of a cannon echoed overhead. The bloodbath at the cornucopia had come to an end at last. He stood still and counted the blasts. One… two...three… nine in total. Two of which he was responsible for. His heart leaped in his chest. The killers had dispersed from the cornucopia. And they would now be on the hunt.

"We'll go a little way further, ok?" he said, trying to force as much calm as possible into his voice .

"Ok," she said, unable to keep the exhaustion from her voice.

She was just about to take a step when Daryl noticed something by her feet. "Sophia, wait!" he cried, grabbing hold of her shoulder and pulling her backwards. He ducked down to the floor and blew at a patch of thick grey dust. A shiny, black, metallic button was visible, right where Sophia had been about to stand.

"We gotta be more careful," he said. "Don't even wanna think about what that coulda done. You follow me, and you stick close, ok? We'll go on for a couple more streets, and then we'll find a place to hole up for the night."

She nodded, looking paler than he had ever seen her.

"Hey," he said. "You're with me. I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to ya." He held his hand out towards her, and she gratefully took it, and together they carried on zig-zagging through the maze of identical streets, keeping an eye out for any more traps.

The light was beginning to fade from the arena when Daryl felt satisfied that they had put enough distance between themselves and the cornucopia. They ducked down an alleyway and pushed open a heavy metal doorway.

The interior of the building was much like that of the one where he had found Sophia. Dilapidated, broken furniture, filled with dust and not much else. He quickly went from room to room, making sure it was clear of traps and anything else that might try to harm them, then dragged a broken cupboard across the doorway. "Should stop anyone from gettin' in here," he said. "Or at least give us a good warnin' if they try."

"Thank you," said Sophia.

"For what?"

"Looking after me," she said. "Like you said you would."

"I promised I would."

"Can I ask you something, Mr Daryl?"

"Sure, kid, as long as ya knock off all that 'mister' crap."

Sophia chuckled nervously, and said, "Would you still be doing it if I was someone else's daughter?"

He glanced over to her in the low light. Her face, although half in shadow, showed nothing but innocence and earnestness. But he had no way to answer that. He wasn't even sure of the answer himself. Instead, he sat down on the floor and opened the canvas rucksack. "You wanna see what we got?" he asked her, hastily changing the subject.

"Sure."

He pulled a thin, crinkly, metallic blanket from inside. It was only really big enough for one person, but could well save their lives if the temperature was to drop severely at night. There was also a small bottle of water, several small bags of dried fruit, and a single bread roll.

"Shit, this is good," said Daryl. "We did alright. But we don't want to just eat and drink everythin' now. We gotta ration it, make it last 'til we can find more, ok? And here," he said, handing Sophia one of the knives he had picked up at the Cornucopia. "You keep this one, ok?"

She took the knife from him, swallowing nervously at the sight of it. "Ok," she said quietly.

"You ain't gotta use it while I'm here, ok? But I feel a whole lot better knowin' you got that on you."

She nodded once again, and looked around in the half-light at the filthy hovel they would call home for the night. "Do you think there might be anything in here?" she asked. "It looks like people lived here once. Maybe there's food and water hidden somewhere?"

"You might be right, kid. You wanna help me check everywhere?"

"Ok."

There were several more broken cupboards, an upturned sofa with the cushions removed, a room that might once have been a bathroom before the ceiling had collapsed and left it little more than a pile of rubble, and upstairs there were two empty rooms containing bedframes, but without mattresses. Night had fallen by the time they had thoroughly searched the house , and there was not a drop of water nor a scrap of food to be found at all.

"We'll stay up here tonight," said Daryl. "I can keep watch by the window, keep an eye out for anyone comin'. But in the meantime, here—" He tore the bread roll in two and gave the bigger piece to Sophia—"Dinner is served."

Sophia gratefully accepted the bread, and they ate in silence, washing it down with a few sips each from the water bottle.

A single shot of the cannon interrupted their meal. Daryl brought his fingers to his lips, gesturing to Sophia to stay quiet, and he moved towards the window. He couldn't see anyone or anything moving out there, but the cannon had made him nervous.

The temperature was beginning to drop rapidly, and as soon as Daryl noticed that Sophia was shivering, he handed her the heat reflective blanket to wrap herself up in.

"I'm still cold," whispered Sophia. "Can we start a fire? We could use some of the broken furniture."

"Ain't a good idea," he replied in a low voice. "Not while they're out there huntin'. Don't want no one to see us."

But even in the darkness, Daryl could see that Sophia couldn't stop shaking, and he unzipped his jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

"Won't you get cold, though?" she asked.

"Naw, I'll be ok," he replied. "I'm gonna be too busy stayin' up on watch. It's hard work sittin' here, stayin' perfectly still…"

Sophia laughed gently, but the sound of the Panem anthem blaring across the arena stopped her immediately. It was time for the death recap.

Daryl peered out of the filthy window at the night sky. The names, faces and Districts of the dead were projected against the night sky at the end of each day. No clues were given as to how they died, or who had killed them; just a reminder to those tributes left of how very far they still had to go.

The first face to be shown was that of the friendly man from District 4; Dale Hovarth. Daryl cursed silently. That meant that the crazy girl from 1 and the maniac from 2 were both still alive. He had hoped that neither survived the bloodbath. His District partner must have survived, though, because next up were both tributes from 5, the man from 6 and the woman from 7.

Next up was the woman from 8 who had committed suicide at the very beginning of the day, followed by her District partner—the asshole that Daryl had killed at the cornucopia. Daryl had never bothered to learn the man's name, but the projection said that he was called Martin Lisle. "Fuck you, Martin," whispered Daryl to the night sky. Next it showed the woman from 10, followed by both tributes from 12.

"How many was that?" asked Sophia.

"Ten," he replied, exhaling a long, sibilant sigh. Twelve more people had to die. And then… so did he. "Get some rest, kid. I'll make sure you're ok."

She used the canvas rucksack as a pillow and curled up on the filthy, dusty floor, while Daryl rubbed at his arms to try and get some heat into them.

_He was 28 years old, and the winter was unusually harsh this year. Frost had permanently hardened the ground, and the fallen snow covered everything in sight in a thick, white blanket. Many people suffered severe frostbite, and the healers worked overtime to deal with the influx of patients suffering from pneumonia and other cold-related injuries._

_The market hub in town saw booming trades, particularly in hot food; workers never had enough time to go home and cook a hot midday meal during their short breaks, but a decent midday meal was vital to get through the day._

_Daryl had bought a bowl of stew from T-Dog, the man who ran the food stall, and who could create a meal from anything. He told him it was made mostly from pig entrails and nettles. It was barely palatable but at least it was hot, and Daryl sat on a nearby bench to eat it as quickly as possible. As he swallowed the thick, greasy stew he looked down at his feet. His boots were becoming so worn as to be almost worthless; if he didn't replace them soon he'd end up with frostbite, just like so many other unfortunates in the District._

_He spooned one last mouthful of T-Dog's stew into his mouth, just as someone came up and sat by him on the bench. He looked up at his new companion. It was her. Her belly was swollen; by Daryl's estimate she looked to be around five or six months pregnant. He shook his head very slightly to himself. He had wondered if, after her miscarriage, she would have realised what a terrible idea having a kid in this fucked up world was. Especially having one with Ed Peletier. But Carol had said over and over again that she had her reasons for staying with him._

_"You shouldn't be out here right now," said Daryl. "Ain't a good idea for no one in your condition. Especially not after..."_

_"I'm pregnant, Daryl. I'm not useless. Women have coped with being pregnant since the beginning of time, and in far worse conditions than these."_

_"Just sayin', if I had a warm fireside to sit by, I wouldn't choose to be out here right now."_

_"I just… I needed to get out for a while. That's all."_

_He side-eyed her very briefly. There didn't appear to be any bruises visible but that didn't mean that there were none. He wouldn't put it past Ed to still be knocking his wife around, even when she was carrying his child. He wanted to offer to knock Ed out again, even if it would risk another whipping. He wanted to tell her that she could sleep in his bed, and he and Merle could sleep on their kitchen floor whenever she wanted to get away from Ed. He wanted to… to tell her that he loved her. That he always had. That he always would. But he couldn't._

_An alarm sounded from far away. The half hour assigned to the field workers for lunch was over and he had to leave. As soon as he stood up, his feet were suddenly wet and frozen._

_"Ahh, shit," he muttered._

_"What's wrong?" Carol asked._

_"Damn boots," he replied, bending over and inspecting the hole that had just ripped into the side. "Worn out to shit. I ain't got the money for new ones."_

_"What size do you wear?"_

_He stared at her in disbelief. She couldn't be offering to buy him new ones? "Why you askin'?"_

_"Because it's pointless me buying you the wrong size."_

_"You don't gotta get me anythin',' he said, his face flooding with color._

_"I know. But I want to. And you need them. What size do you wear?"_

_"Ten." The alarm sounded again. He had to get back to work or risk his pay being docked. "I have to go. I don't want you to do this, Carol. I ain't some fuckin' charity."_

_"So, are you telling me that you'd rather walk around with holes in your shoes, risking frostbite and trenchfoot than accept a gift from a friend who wants to help? And who owes you for every kindness you've ever done me?"_

_He didn't answer her; he stood up and returned his bowl to T-Dog's stand, desperately trying to ignore the uncomfortable freezing cold wetness squelching around in his boots._

_"They'll be waiting for you when you get home," he heard her call after him._

"Hey Carol," he said softly up at the night sky, knowing she would be watching him wherever she was. "You want to send me any new boots or anythin', a couple of blankets and a hot meal, I promise I ain't gonna kick up a fuss this time." For a split second he wondered if his teasing joke would be enough to get Carol to send any supplies down to them, but nothing came. "Goddammit," he muttered under his breath, his teeth chattering loudly.

"Daryl?" said Sophia's quiet voice.

The sound of her voice surprised him; he had been certain that she was asleep. "What, kid?"

"Here," she said, and she held Daryl's jacket back out to him. "It's too cold to be without it. And… we can share the blanket too."

"Someone has to stay on watch."

"If anyone comes in, they'll wake us up. You need sleep too."

He hated to admit it, but she was right. He'd be absolutely useless at protecting her if he didn't get at least some rest. He lay back against the dusty floor, and Sophia shuffled close to him, pulling the metallic blanket over both of them. He forced his eyes closed, and tried to stop the anxiety racing through his mind. It was impossible. But, on a positive note, even if he couldn't sleep, at least he wasn't going to freeze to death on the first day. He allowed himself the slightest of smiles at his small victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Male - Gareth, Female - Lizzie
> 
> 2\. Male -Negan, Female -Paula
> 
> 3\. Male - Bob, Female -Alisha
> 
> 4\. _Male - Dale_ , Female - Andrea
> 
> 5\. _Male -Axel, Female -Deanna_
> 
> 6\. _Male - Nicholas_ , Female -Dawn
> 
> 7\. Male - Shane, _Female - Lori_
> 
> 8\. _Male - Martin, Female -Jacqui_
> 
> 9\. Male - Hershel, Female - Beth
> 
> 10\. Male - Joe, _Female -Karen_
> 
> 11\. Male - Daryl, Female - Sophia
> 
> 12\. _Male - Noah, Female - Holly_


	7. The Hunger Games Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Italics indicate flashbacks

A silver ray of sunlight had penetrated the grimy window, and had fought its way through the thick clouds of dust to settle directly over Daryl's recumbent head, gently rousing him from sleep.

As soon as he realized where he was he sat up in a blind panic, relaxing only slightly when he knew that Sophia was still beside him. His sudden movements pulled her from sleep and she sat up with a similar gasp.

"You ok?" he asked her.

She nodded furiously, as her breathing slowly returned to normal. "I'm ok," she said.

"Good." He stood up and walked over to the window to look down into the street below. There was no one to be seen, and no break to the endless, dull grey of the half-destroyed buildings. "We oughta get out there, search these other buildings. I think you might be right, there's gotta be supplies or somethin' out here somewhere."

"Can we have some fruit first? I'm really hungry."

Daryl searched through the canvas bag and pulled out the bags of dried fruit. They weren't much of a meal, but they'd have to do. "What do you want?" he asked her. "We got two bags of raisins, one of apples, one of apricots, and one of pineapple."

"Ugh, not raisins," she said, pulling a face. "Anything but those."

"You don't like raisins?" he asked her.

"No way."

"Then you're damn lucky I do," he lied, as he tossed the dried pineapple her way, and took one of the bags of raisins for himself. It took all of his self-control to force the revolting morsels down and not spit them back out, but even a meal of raisins was better than nothing. He allowed each of them a couple more sips of water before he repacked the canvas backpack. After shouldering the crossbow and brace of bolts, grabbing his knife and making sure Sophia still had hers, he led them both downstairs. Very carefully, he shifted the broken furniture away from the door, and pulled it open a crack, making sure that there was no one around at all.

The streets were utterly deserted as they made their way back outside. "You can pick the first place we search," said Daryl. "And I'll go in first."

The first building she pointed to was completely blocked, and the next sent an avalanche of broken concrete and rubble towards them as soon as Daryl managed to force the door open. The third was similar to the hovel they had stayed the night before—emptied of everything except filth and rubble.

Indeed, every single building they were able to get inside was the same. Just a great deal of physical labor that made him sweat, and a thick layer of dust that dried his mouth out even more.

They soon noticed a pattern; none of the doors they tried on the main streets would open, only the ones in the alleyways. Not that that particular piece of knowledge made their search any more fruitful, but it did save them time.

Midway through the afternoon, they stopped to share the bag of dried apples and have a couple more sips of water. The bottle wasn't going to last until the next day, and with the amount of physical exertion he was putting himself through, and in such dry, dusty conditions, it was an enormous worry.

By the time night fell, they had found nothing of any value at all in any of the houses they had searched. Neither had they seen nor heard from any other tributes. No cannon fire had pronounced a death. Daryl had seen no evidence of any animals to hunt. It was as if he and Sophia had been taken from Panem and dropped straight into purgatory, the only living beings left in the world.

The temperature soon began to drop again, and with their stomachs so empty both of them felt the sting of the cold even more. They huddled together under the blanket, finished the last of the water, and waited for sleep to take them.

"Do you remember when you found me in the woods, Daryl?" Sophia suddenly spoke into the darkness.

"When you were little?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah I do. Ya been a pain in my ass for years," he said with a half-smile, as he gave the tiny girl a gentle squeeze.

_His shift had just ended. A doe had wandered through the orchard while he was working, and he was surreptitiously trying to find the beginning of its tracks before he left, so that he could come back later and hopefully find it. He had no idea how he'd get the damn thing home if he caught it, but a doe that size could feed himself and Merle for a month, and he'd be damned if he was just going to let the opportunity pass him by._

_But a strange, foreign noise caught his attention. It sounded like a young girl crying. Tears by themselves weren't exactly unusual; so many kids were forced into hard labor and denied proper childhoods, that the sound of crying out in the orchards was pretty commonplace. But these were coming from one far younger than those usually sent out to work. Most kids in District 11 dropped out of school by the age of eight or nine to come and work, to try and earn just a few extra coins for their families, but this voice sounded too young to have even started school._

_Daryl looked around for the source of the crying, and eventually found a small girl of about four of five hiding in the hollow of a tree, not far from where the electric fences marked the edge of the District._

_"Little girl?" he called out. "You ok?"_

_The girl looked up at him with tear-stained eyes, and he felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. It was Carol's little girl. Sophia._

_His immediate fear was that her son-of-a-bitch daddy had hit her, although a quick scan of her skinny arms and frightened face didn't show any bruising. Her eyes widened in fear and she tried to back away even further into the hollow._

_"Hey," he said in a soft voice, as he squatted down to her level. "I ain't gonna hurt ya. It's Sophia, right? I'm friends with your momma. Is she near?"_

_Sophia shook her head, her eyes still frightened and wary. Daryl noticed that she clutched something within her arms; a tiny ragdoll._

_"Who's this?" he asked, pointing to the tiny doll and sitting cross-legged on the ground nearby._

_"E-Eliza," she said._

_"Eliza? Sure is a pretty name."_

_The ghost of a smile passed over Sophia's face as she looked down at the doll in her arms. "Thank you," she said quietly, her breath still hitching with each word._

_"Did Eliza lead you out here?"_

_"No," she said._

_"So she followed you?"_

_"Uh-huh."_

_"She must be a really good friend to follow you all the way out here."_

_"She is," said Sophia. "She's my best friend."_

_"Can I talk to her?"_

_"Ok," said Sophia, smiling as she held the ragdoll out towards him._

_"Hey, Eliza, I don't know if you knew this, but bein' out here all alone? It ain't a good idea. And Sophia's momma is gonna be real worried about her if she don't get home soon."_

_Sophia held the little doll close to her own chest once more. "I don't want to go home," she said._

_"Why not?" asked Daryl, knowing with a sinking feeling what her answer was going to be._

_But she stayed quiet and hugged the doll even tighter._

_Anger flared up in his chest. If that fucking asshole had laid a finger on his daughter…_

_"You know," said Daryl, forcing his voice into calm, "when I was a kid, my momma and my daddy used to argue. All the time. And sometimes, my daddy, he'd blame me for the arguments. It was real scary when he got angry like that. I was lucky that I had my brother to look after me."_

_"I wish… I wish I had a brother," she said._

_"Tell you what, you can have mine," said Daryl. "He's an idiot, but he'll look after you. Come on, I'll introduce you."_

_Very slowly she nodded, and Daryl held his hand out towards her. She grasped hold of it tightly and he led her out of the orchards, and back to his house. He left Sophia under Merle's care with instructions to not let her out of his sight._

_"I ain't no babysitter," complained Merle. "Ain't my place to look after someone else's brat."_

_"You're gonna look after her, and you're gonna do it with a goddamned smile on your face."_

_"And while I'm playin' house with the the kid of the pussy you're chasin', what are you gonna be doin'?"_

_"I'm goin' to have a little word with her daddy."_

_"You insane, bro? You remember what happened last time you went up against that ugly piece of shit?"_

_"You just look after her. I can look after myself."_

_He stormed through town and up the long pathway to Victor's Village. He had never before visited these enormous houses, with their beautifully manicured gardens, built specially by the Capitol for the exclusive use of the Victors. He wasn't even sure which one belonged to Carol._

_But as he passed through the gateway to the Village itself, it immediately became apparent that he didn't need to know which one belonged to her. She was outside in the main square, pacing up and down, panic etched into her face._

_He didn't need to be told what was upsetting her, and ran to meet her. "It's ok," he said. "I got her. She's back at mine."_

_Carol collapsed into his arms, her breathing coming out in huge, shuddering gasps. "I've had everyone searching for her," she said through her tears. "Thank you."_

_Daryl held on to her until she began to calm, and she wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. "Thank you," she said again._

_"Is Ed around?" he asked her, and she immediately tensed._

_"He's not here," she said._

_"Where is he?"_

_"Out," she replied, a little too quickly. "I don't know where. It doesn't matter. I just… I just want my little girl back."_

_She flashed a dark look over her shoulder towards one of the houses, and a part of Daryl wanted to bust the goddamned door down and beat Ed's sorry ass into the ground. But reuniting Carol with her daughter was more important right now. "Come on," he said softly. "I'll take you to her."_

"My momma talked about that for so long."

"Yeah? What did she say?"

"She said that you had done more me that day than my daddy did in his whole life."

Daryl was suddenly horribly aware of the fact that there would be cameras watching their every move. "Get some sleep," he said. "We'll find food and water in the morning."

But the following day their efforts to find sustenance proved to be as futile as ever. He began to wish that he had forced himself to eat more food in the hovercraft, because two small bags of raisins, a handful of dried apple and half a bread roll over the course of nearly three days was not nearly enough to sustain him.

Almost more worrying was the fact that there had been no cannon fire at all since the first day. The Capitol viewers would be getting restless, and if no one died soon, the Gamesmakers would be sure to introduce an element of danger.

They would cross that bridge when they came to it. For now, food and especially water were their top priority.

"Nothing?" asked Sophia as Daryl slammed yet another broken cupboard shut.

"Nothin'," replied Daryl in frustration. There had to be water somewhere in this godforsaken arena. There had to be. The Gamesmakers wouldn't just let everyone die of dehydration. There was no fun in that at all for the bloodthirsty viewers.

He led them both back out into the streets, which were as grey and featureless as ever, but a terrifying sound caught their attention. It was a groaning, shuffling noise interspersed regularly with a sharp snap, and the sound echoed off the walls of the abandoned buildings.

"Daryl?"

And then with a creeping horror he saw them. The source of the noise. Capitol mutts. They looked like they had been made from the dead bodies of the fallen tributes. Their skin was grey and appeared scabbed and rotted, their eyes hollow and yellowed, and they stumbled blindly forwards. It was the tribute from 8 that he had stabbed in the bloodbath, the male from 5, and the two tributes from 12.

"Run," begged Sophia, but Daryl had spotted something else. The Gamesmakers had hung tins of food around two of their necks and water bottles around the necks of the others. His stomach growled and his mouth watered at the sight of it. Maybe this was the only source of food and water in the entire arena? Either way, he wasn't walking away from it. He raised his crossbow towards the female mutt—who was closest to him—and fired, striking her directly in the heart.

But she kept coming, as if the arrow through her heart meant nothing at all. He quickly reloaded and fired again, his second arrow landing just half an inch away from the first, and still she kept stalking towards him.

"Please," begged Sophia, but he had to fight these things. If they didn't eat or drink again soon, they'd die as surely as if these mutts got hold of them.

"Shit," he breathed, reloading yet again. This time he went for the head, and his arrow lodged firmly into her right eye. She immediately fell to the ground.

"Shit," he hissed once again, as he realized how close the mutts from 8 and 5 were to him. There wasn't time to reload before the mutt from 8 was practically on top of him, jaws gnashing and snapping. Sophia screamed, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her turn and flee as the male mutt from 12 pursued her, and he called to her to hide and wait for him, but there was no answer.

He kicked out towards the mutt from 5, who stumbled and fell to the ground just as the mutt from 8 reached him. He was relentless in his attack and as the pair of them tumbled to the ground, it took all of Daryl's strength to stop the damn thing from biting him.

The mutt from 5 had regained his footing and was gaining on him once more. Daryl swept his leg out and tripped the mutt again, then finally managed to roll over on top of the one he was grappling with. He grabbed the mutt's head and repeatedly slammed it to the concrete ground until the mutt finally stilled. In a quick movement he pulled out his knife and pounced on the mutt from 5, forcing the blade straight down into the thing's skull.

Panting, Daryl looked up. "Sophia!" he called out, not thinking that he would be giving his position away by making so much noise. "Sophia!"

But there was no answer.

He quickly retrieved his bolts from the female mutt's corpse, and grabbed the two tins of food and the water bottle from around their necks, shoving them into the canvas rucksack.

He could see her tracks, as well as those made by the shuffling mutt, but neither her nor the mutt itself were anywhere to be seen. But there had been no cannon fire...she was still alive. Just damn good at running and hiding. He'd catch up with her soon enough.

_Daryl half watched the TV screen in his tiny kitchenette while skinning and gutting the huge rat he had caught just outside his front door. He was already exhausted from the day's work, and the thought of having to sneak past all the Peacekeepers was not especially appealing, so the sight of the rat practically giving itself to him was welcome indeed._

_The mandatory Capitol propaganda that played on the TV described the joy of labor, and the necessity of self-sacrifice. Daryl ignored the bullshit completely; it may have been the law to have the television on, but nothing could make him pay full attention._

_Someone knocked at the front door, and his stomach dropped. Who the hell would be calling on them at this time of day, except Peacekeepers? And his hands were covered in the blood and guts of a poached rat._

_"Get that, Merle," he shouted through to his brother._

_"Ain't gettin' nothin', bro," Merle shouted back._

_The knocking sounded again, more urgent this time. "Merle! I'm kinda busy," he called back through gritted teeth as he shoved the rat corpse into a cupboard and furiously began wiping his hands clean._

_"Me too, baby brother," said Merle, and he walked through into the kitchen completely naked, carrying a tiny wash rag. "I'm takin' a bath. So unless you want the world seein' this, you best hurry up!"_

_"Shit, Merle, have some goddamn decency," he said as finished wiping his hands on the back of his pants. "Get the fuck out of here." Merle smirked and headed back into their shared bedroom. Meanwhile, Daryl quickly inspected himself and the tiny kitchen as the knocking sounded once more. They wouldn't stand up to a great deal of scrutiny, but if he could get rid of the Peacekeepers quickly, he should be safe enough._

_Steeling himself with a deep breath, he opened the front door. It wasn't Peacekeepers after all. It was Carol, and her eyes were tear streaked._

_"What's wrong?" he asked her gently._

_"Have you seen Sophia?" she asked._

_"She missin' again?"_

_Carol nodded, panic in her eyes. "Ed was… shouting. And I heard the front door go… I tried to get away from him but I couldn't...And by the time I did, she was nowhere to be seen. She hasn't stopped talking about you in months. I just wondered…thought she might come back here..."_

_"I ain't seen her. But I'll help you find her," he said, stepping outside and closing his front door behind him._

_"She didn't come here?"_

_"No, but I can show ya where I found her before. Maybe she went back there?"_

_"Thank you," she said, and she stood on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek._

_From behind them, they heard the sound of a young girl giggling. Both Daryl and Carol turned instantly towards the sound of the noise, and they just caught sight of young blonde girl as she ducked behind one of the scrubby bushes at the back of his home. Carol immediately moved to run towards her, but Daryl placed a hand on her arm, and gave her the slightest of winks._

_"I ain't seen Sophia," he said in a slightly louder voice. "But I just remembered, Eliza was here earlier."_

_Carol was halfway between tears and laughing, but she caught on quickly. "Eliza, you say? Maybe she knows where Sophia is. Where did you see her?"_

_"She was hangin' out at the back of the house. But I ain't seen her in ages. Don't know if she's still there."_

_"Well," said Carol, quickly drying her eyes on her sleeve, "I guess that's the best place to start looking right?"_

_The giggling grew louder by degrees, as Sophia ran from her hiding spot to a different one, and Daryl and Carol pretended not to notice._

_"You sure this is where you saw her?" said Carol._

_"She was right here," said Daryl. "Said that she was playin' Hide and Seek with Sophia."_

_"Well, if that's the case, I don't know what to do," said Carol. "Sophia's the best at Hide and Seek. I don't know if we'll ever find her again."_

_"Hey, she ain't never played against me. She might be the best at hidin', but I'm the best at seekin'."_

_"Go ahead and seek, then," smiled Carol._

_Sophia's giggles had turned to belly laughs, but the game wasn't over just yet. He picked up a handful of pebbles from the dusty ground and looked underneath them with an exasperated sigh."Well," he said, "she ain't under here. Maybe round the other side of the house?" He jogged all the way around the tiny shack, returning to Carol's side a minute later. "Naw, she ain't round there neither."_

_"I thought you said you were the best at seeking?" teased Carol._

_"Maybe it needs a momma's touch?" he suggested._

_"Maybe you're right," said Carol. "I wonder if she's behind that bush?"_

_Sophia was laughing louder than ever as Carol crept up behind her and threw her arms around her._

_"You mustn't run away like that, Sophia," Carol said, once again halfway between tears and relieved laughter, as she held the girl in her arms. "I was so worried."_

_"I'm sorry, momma," said Sophia. "I didn't want to make you sad."_

_"I know, baby. I know." She stood up, still holding her daughter. "Thank you," she said. "Again."_

_"S'ok," he said, looking down at the ground. And now, like always, she would go back to her husband, and it'd be ok for a while, and then he would hurt her, and life would carry on as normal. It wasn't fair._

_"Leave him," he said. "He ain't good for ya. He ain't good for either of ya."_

_"We've been through this, Daryl. I can't."_

_"We ain't been through nothin'. I just don't wanna see you gettin' hurt, is all."_

_"I know, Daryl. And I can't let you get hurt either."_

_He paused for a moment while Carol placed a few soft kisses on the top of Sophia's head. If she'd only tell him her reasons for staying with Ed, when she was so clearly unhappy…_

_"You at least want to stick around for dinner? It ain't nothin' fancy, but there's gonna be plenty of it at least."_

_"You know I can't," she said with a sad smile, and with one final kiss to his cheek, she began the trek back towards Victor's Village._

He followed her footprints up one of the alleyways and out onto a another identical and wide street. But as he ran he felt something move under his feet. He heard the click a split second later and froze. "Oh, _fuck_ ," he hissed, and he held his breath as he waited for the explosion that would end him.

But it didn't come. Very slowly, he began to breathe. And that was when the world turned to hell.

At the end of the street, a wall of fire was moving towards him. Fear gripped at his heart, but he forced his legs to move, and he turned and ran in the opposite direction.

Another wall of fire blocked the end of the street, and was closing in on him.

Without thinking twice, he ran towards the nearest alleyway. Huge flames leaped up in front of him, and he threw his arms up in front of his face to protect himself from the sudden intense heat.

The two walls of flame were rapidly closing in on him. The alleyways were blocked. There was only one option left to him, and even then he may not survive. Using the crossbow, he smashed open one of the windows of the nearest building and put the heavy leather jacket over the windowsill, then climbed through as quickly as possible. He grabbed the jacket and ducked down away from the window. Seconds later the wall of flame flew up past his hiding place, blocking the exit from the window entirely.

The fire was clearly entirely unnatural because it created no smoke, and none of the flames licked inside the building. But damn, if it wasn't hotter than the fires of hell. Nothing to do but wait it out, and pray that it stopped eventually.

In the meantime he quenched his parched throat with a few sips from the bottle of water he'd taken from the mutts, and pulled the lid from one of the tins of food. It was filled with a thick vegetable stew, and the smell made his stomach growl louder than ever. He poured the cold stew straight into his mouth, and used his fingers to wipe up every last drop. He was still absolutely starving and picked up the second tin, before returning it to the rucksack a second later. When he caught up with Sophia, she'd be even more in need of it.

If he caught up with her, that was. The wall of fire wasn't going anywhere. Maybe it was now a permanent feature of the arena, and he'd be trapped here until he died a slow, painful death of dehydration… What a shit way for his life to end…

And then, suddenly, the flames were gone, leaving him in pitch darkness. At first he wondered if it was just the lack of blazing light from the fire, but then he realised that night had fallen. There had been no cannon fire at all during the day, so Sophia was still out there. It was far too dangerous to track her at night, when he could set off more traps even more easily; he would have to hole up for the night and try again in the morning.

But in the morning, as he climbed back out of the broken window, he came to a terrible, terrible realisation. The fires had destroyed every trace of Sophia's tracks, and that of the mutt following her. "Sophia!" he called out at the top of his lungs. " _Sophia!_ "

He looked desperately back and forth along the street, holding his breath for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

Not a single goddamned thing.

If it had felt as though he and Sophia had been dumped in Purgatory before, that was nothing to how he felt now, entirely alone in this dusty, drab, and colorless world. Every single street and every single alleyway looked exactly the same, just an endless, silent grey. And despite the noise he was making, calling to her over and over, not a single person showed up to try and kill him.

Was he already dead, perhaps? Had he died in the fire? Been killed by the mutts? Or even by one of those flying knives back at the bloodbath? Maybe this was the afterlife, and he was destined to wander here, lost, forever.

No… The Games were designed to be cruel, and this emptiness was surely just testing him, breaking him down so that when they sent something else to test him, it would be even closer. Or just kill him outright. As far as the Capitol was concerned, either would be perfect entertainment.

His mouth was parched, and his stomach painfully empty. He still had half a bottle of water, and a whole tin of food. He took a couple of sips from the bottle and stared at the tin longingly before shoving both back inside the rucksack. Sophia would have had even less than him. He had to find her, and get it to her. He had to.

He guessed it to be about mid-afternoon when the cannon echoed across the arena.

Panic and dread hit him like a punch to the gut, and he redoubled his efforts, calling out for Sophia until his throat was raw.

But his calls for her weren't met by the voice of a young girl. Once again, he heard the eerie sound of the Capitol mutts, moaning and snapping and stumbling towards him. And as soon as he heard the noise, the mutt stumbled out from its hiding place in the nearest alleyway, missing Daryl by inches.

This time it was the old man from 4, Dale Hovarth. His stomach was torn open, entrails spilling from the wound, and his eyes were clouded over, but he reached for Daryl as if he were living and rabid. Daryl kicked him away and immediately fired a bolt into the thing's skull, putting a stop to it at once.

There was a single bottle of water attached to his neck, and no extra food. As Daryl retrieved the crossbow bolt and pulled the water from the mutt's neck, a second cannon echoed through the arena. The sense of dread increased tenfold, but he forced himself to keep searching for her until night fell.

At long last, the Panem anthem blared across the arena, and Daryl stared up into the sky, terrified of what he would see.

The first face was the young woman from District 3; Alisha Huerta. He held his breath, his heart pounding furiously in his throat, praying with all his might that the next face he saw wasn't Sophia.

The kindly-looking old man from 9, Hershel Greene, appeared in the sky, and Daryl fell to the ground in relief. Sophia was still alive, out there somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of remaining tributes is as follows
> 
> 1\. Male - Gareth, Female - Lizzie
> 
> 2\. Male -Negan, Female -Paula
> 
> 3\. Male - Bob, _Female -Alisha_
> 
> _4\. Male - Dale,_ Female - Andrea
> 
> _5\. Male -Axel, Female -Deanna_
> 
> _6\. Male - Nicholas,_ Female -Dawn
> 
> 7\. Male - Shane, _Female - Lori_
> 
> _8\. Male - Martin, Female -Jacqui_
> 
> _9\. Male - Hershel,_ Female - Beth
> 
> 10\. Male - Joe, _Female -Karen_
> 
> 11\. Male - Daryl, Female - Sophia
> 
> _12\. Male - Noah, Female - Holly_


	8. The Hunger Games Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics indicate flashbacks. This chapter features graphic violence, just so you know

How long had he been here? How long had it been since he and Sophia had been separated? Two days? Three? And aside from the mutt created from the dead body of the man from 4, he still hadn't seen a single other person.

He hadn't moved an inch since collapsing on the floor after the death recap the night before. And no one had come across him. So what was the point in hiding? In moving at all? He was almost convinced that he was alone.

Despite the tin of food he carried with him, he hadn't eaten a thing in over a day. It was the only thing giving him hope, because if he wasn't alone, if Sophia was still out there, how could he possibly eat without her? After all, it would have been even longer since she had eaten. No. He had to save it for her.

"I'm sorry," he muttered quietly, unsure if Carol would even hear him. Were they even still watching him? Carol had told him that he made for good television, but there was nothing exciting about watching a man slowly losing his mind. A man who had failed, and who knew it. He could search forever for Sophia in this endless arena and never find her… And the longer they were separated, the less chance he had of finding her at all.

And so he sat on the dusty, grimy floor, his crossbow resting beside him, with his head down, propping himself up on one hand, whispering an apology over and over again.

His head was foggy from the combination of exhaustion and hunger and he began to imagine how Merle would be reacting to watching him. He'd be shouting at the television, telling him to get up, to stop feeling so sorry for himself. "Ain't feelin' sorry for myself," he mumbled.

"You sure, Darlina? 'Cause it sure as shit looks that way to me."

"Shut up, Merle."

"What you even doin', huh?"

"Lookin' for the girl."

"No you ain't. You sat there like some pansy-ass pussy piece of shit waitin' for them to hunt you down. You stay here like this and you gonna die, little bro."

"You don't know what it's like."

"What? Bein' a fuckin' pussy? Hell yeah I don't know what that's like."

"Bein' here. It ain't happenin' to you."

He saw the heavy boots out of the corner of his eye, and prepared himself for Merle's sarcastic comeback, but a split second later those boots kicked Daryl's crossbow out of his reach.

It was like being dragged out a dream and straight into a nightmare. He looked up and quickly rolled to one side as a man of around fifty—the District 10 tribute—swung towards his head, a broken piece of concrete in his hand. He scrambled towards the crossbow, but the man from 10 grabbed hold of Daryl's leg, and dragged him backwards, surprising him with the show of strength. Daryl kicked back, knocking the man away from him, then clambered to his feet and reached the bow.

But the District 10 tribute wasn't giving up yet; before Daryl could raise the crossbow, the man was in front of him, trying to wrestle the weapon out of his arms.

"This bow," said the man calmly, "was left out for me. I'm claiming it back."

"You ain't claimin' shit," said Daryl, desperately trying to yank the bow back out of the man's grasp.

As they fought, he felt the ground under his left foot move, and heard the click a split second later.

A roaring buzz sounded from either end of the street, and Daryl immediately saw the trap springing to life.

Several enormous, circular saws had raised up out of the street and were beginning to move inexorably towards them. There was no time to fight. He had to get off the street and into the relative safety of one of the buildings immediately.

The tribute from 10 hadn't yet realised precisely what was happening, hadn't quite realised the urgency of the situation, and Daryl used this to his advantage. He managed to get his finger around the crossbow's trigger; it was pointing to the ground and slightly towards the other tribute and with a quick prayer that his luck wasn't about to run out, he pressed it.

A bolt shot out and captured the other tribute in the foot. He fell backwards but somehow managed to take the bow with him. Daryl didn't have time to retrieve it.

He heard the man yelling at him and out of the corner of his eye, he saw him pull the bolt from his own foot and reach for the bow. All he could do was hope that the man's injury would slow him down.

He ran for the nearest alleyway, but the street's trap had already been set, and as he approached, several giant buzzsaws rose from the ground, blocking the path. And then he could see them up ahead, tearing up the concrete ground, and starting to pick up the pace towards him. He elbowed the nearest window, and jumped through, not caring that the broken glass would cut his arms and legs; there were far worse things out there.

A split second later, he turned to see the man from 10 attempting to climb through the window; Daryl ran towards him and shoved him hard. The man fell backwards but grabbed hold of the front of Daryl's jacket and tried to pull him back outside too.

There was an awful moment where Daryl noticed the precise second that life left the man's eyes. The cannon fire sounded, just as the man's grip on him slackened and he fell forward through the window. He had been sliced neatly in half, the back of his skull open and the muscles and tendons of his back exposed. Daryl stumbled backwards away from the horrific sight as the front half of the man's body was dragged back outside, to be pulverised further by the spinning blades.

He fell to his knees and retched over and over, but there was nothing in his stomach except the tiniest amount of water.

He drew the back of his shaking hand across his mouth and looked out of the window, to where the spinning buzzsaws still moved back and forth up the street. Several of them were still coated in glistening, wet red, and Daryl thought about the plain wooden coffins that dead tributes were sent back to their Districts in. What would this man's family receive?

It wasn't his fault, after all. The man was just trying to survive. It was always terrible for the families, to have to watch their loved ones die on national television, but in such a gruesome and terrible manner? And to have no body to bury, to mourn over?

Of course, people always reacted differently to deaths. Sometimes the families cried for weeks. Sometimes they shut down entirely. Sometimes they forced themselves to keep going, and acted as if nothing was wrong at all.

_Ed Peletier was dead. But no one seemed to be able to fully explain how he had died. The rumors of his death had circulated the District like wildfire, and yet no one seemed able to fully confirm or deny them. It wasn't until Carol Peletier and her seven year old daughter were seen attending a funeral service at the Justice Building that his death was finally confirmed. But what the District found strange was that Carol did not seem at all upset by his sudden passing. Certainly it was observed that she did not shed a single tear at his funeral, nor in the following weeks. Rumors began to fly that she may even have had something to do with his death. After all, it was well known that Ed Peletier was prone to violence, and Carol was a Victor in the Hunger Games—she was no stranger to taking another's life._

_Whatever the truth was, Daryl knew that Carol was not capable of cold blooded murder. Maybe in self-defence, or to protect the life of her daughter, but nothing as cold and clinical as murder._

_Several weeks after Ed's funeral, as Daryl returned home from a shift, he spotted a pale green stone lying by the side of the road. Something about it caught his attention, and he stopped to pick it up._

_"That's a piece of luck," said Aaron, looking over at the stone. "Literally," he added with a smile._

_"Luck?" Daryl asked, running his finger over the smooth stone._

_"Absolutely. That looks like jasper. How it came to be here in 11, I can't begin to imagine. But it's supposed to represent luck. Or protection. Or...female eroticism," he said, with the slightest of blushes._

_"No shit," said Daryl, pocketing the smooth, slightly warm stone._

_At home he took the stone out and studied it; it was utterly beautiful. Just over an inch long, and oval in shape, the swirling patterns subtly changed from bright apple green, to a rich, almost forest green. He placed the stone to his mouth and ran it over his lower lip several times, before he remembered what Aaron had said about it representing female eroticism and he stopped immediately, blushing furiously. But what else had Aaron said? That it represented protection?_

_He thought of Carol. He was quite sure that Carol could look after herself, especially now that Ed was finally out of the picture for good, but he wanted her to know that he was there for her. Especially as she seemed to have hidden herself away._

_And so, the next time he had a day off, he decided that enough was enough; she couldn't hide away forever. He would go and see her, tell her that he was there for her if she ever needed someone, and give her the jasper stone. After spending most of the morning working up the courage, he made the trip to Victor's Village. He was still unsure which of the houses belonged to her, but fuck it. If necessary he'd knock on each and every one until he found her._

_Thankfully, it didn't come to that. One of the front doors opened, and Sophia came outside to play, shortly followed by her mother. Carol noticed his presence immediately and quickly walked over to meet him._

_"What are you doing here?" she said in a hushed and urgent tone._

_"I had to make sure you're ok."_

_"I'm fine. And you shouldn't be here."_

_"Why not?"_

_But she refused to answer._

_"Mister Daryl!" called Sophia, and she ran to her mother's side, a wide grin plastered over her face._

_"He was just going home, baby," said Carol. "You go wait for me indoors."_

_Sophia looked between the two of them in confusion, then turned and ran inside._

_Daryl watched her go, then faced Carol. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his fingertips brushed against the jasper stone. None of this was going as he had planned it._

_"I just wanted you to know, that if ya needed anythin'—"_

_"I don't," she answered shortly._

_There was something he was missing. She was acting as if it was his fault that Ed had died. And that she actually missed him on top of that. But that made no sense at all. "You can't tell me you ain't happy that son-of-a-bitch is dead," he said. "I know you."_

_"No, Daryl. You don't know me," replied Carol._

_"Yeah, right, you just keep tellin' yourself that."_

_Carol stared at him long and hard, and tears clouded her eyes. "You need to leave," she repeated._

_"Why are ya bein' this way?" he said. "You get to start over. I ain't sayin' with me. I don't want you to think I'm only…" He tailed off, unable to finish the sentence. If she didn't want to be with him, then he could accept that. But he would always offer her his friendship and his support if nothing else. "But you got a second chance, a new start"_

_"No, Daryl. I don't. And the sooner you learn that the better."_

_She left him alone and he walked home, the piece of jasper still secreted in his pocket._

Outside his temporary safe haven, the buzzsaw blades continued to spin. He watched them fly past his window, still coated in the blood of the man from 10. When the cannon fired across the arena once more, he turned away from the blades, desperate to get outside and continue his search, but entirely unable to do so. At long last night fell and the Panem Anthem began to play, and the blades disappeared back into the ground.

Daryl hurried over to the window to check who else had died, and breathed a sigh of relief when the woman from 6 appeared in the sky, followed by the man from 10. Joe Dalton. Still reeling over the terrible manner of the man's death, Daryl raised his bottle of water to the sky and drank deeply. "Sorry it ain't somethin' stronger," he muttered as he slid to the floor and waited for morning.

Perhaps it was the unendurable loneliness, the all-pervading sense of failure, or the almost unbearable hunger, but the sun seemed to take even longer to rise.

As soon as there was enough light, Daryl climbed back out of the broken window. He had half-hoped that the crossbow might have miraculously survived the onslaught of spinning blades, but he had no such luck. It had either been completely destroyed or it had been picked up by someone else during the night. He desperately hoped it was the former option.

He looked up and down the street, hoping that some kind of a clue would present itself as to Sophia's whereabouts, but everything was as featureless as ever. Nothing to do but pick a direction and hope that he was right.

The desperate hunger was making him lethargic and clumsy, and several times he very nearly stumbled upon yet another trap switch. He felt that escaping for a third time would be pushing his luck way too far. But it was so hard to concentrate on anything at all when all he could think about was food. He thought about the vast banquets laid out on the train, the ease with which he could order anything he wanted back at the training centre, all the wasted food he'd left on the hovercraft on his journey here... Hell, he'd even give anything for bowl of T-Dog's pig entrail stew right now.

Midway through the afternoon, just as he was fantasizing about a venison steak with roast potatoes and green beans that he had eaten during training he heard the sound of a man screaming nearby.

His nerves were immediately on high alert; the screaming seemed to be coming from an alleyway on the opposite side of the street. He ran to the adjacent, bombed out building, took a deep breath, and peered around the edge, to be met with a gruesome sight.

One of the tributes—possibly the man from 3—was lying on the ground. Both of his legs were missing from the knee down. And kneeling beside him, hacking away at one of the stumps, and tossing bloody chunks into a small campfire beside them, the man from District 1.

He thought he had seen the worst of the arena yesterday with the gory death of the man from 10, but this was something else entirely. There were no rules at all in the arena, and while cannibalism was generally frowned upon, there certainly wasn't anything to stop him.

Daryl couldn't let the man live. If only he hadn't lost the crossbow, he could take out the sick bastard in a heartbeat…

He glanced around the corner once more. The man from 1 was still distracted, bent over the fire, cooking his hideous meal. After several deep, steadying breaths, he pulled out his dagger and gripped it tightly in his fist, certain that the monster from 1 would be able to hear his pounding heartbeat.

He turned the corner, leaving his hiding place and immediately felt a terrible flash of pain. He looked down and could see a thin stiletto protruding from his side. He dropped the dagger and fell to his knees, quite unable to comprehend what had happened.

"Dammit," said the man from 1 as he came close and kicked Daryl's dagger out of reach. "Do you know how rude it is to interrupt a man in the middle of dinner?"

"You're sick," mumbled Daryl.

"Sick?" laughed the man. "Nope. Just giving the people what they want. And a man's gotta eat. I don't know if you've noticed, but they haven't given us much food in this arena."

The pain in his side was burning, making him feel dizzy, nauseous, sluggish…

"Sick," he repeated.

"It's Daryl, right? Well, Daryl, I'm going to take a few more cuts from Bob over there before I kill him, and then I'll take a few from you. That should keep me going until I win this. If you struggle, like Bob did, I'll make it slow and painful. Submit, and I promise it'll be quick."

He moved his hand away from the burning pain in his side. His fingers were coated in sticky, red blood. Very slowly, he looked up at the man taunting him and nodded.

"Got to say, Daryl, I'm disappointed. You didn't seem the type to give up so quickly. But I guess when a man knows he's lost, he knows."

The man from 1 smirked and reached for his belt for another knife. But as he did so, Daryl pulled the stiletto from his side and stood in a single movement, quickly plunging the sharp, needle-like knife down into the man's neck. His eyes opened wide in surprise as Daryl stabbed him over and over, his heartbeat hammering furiously in his ears, until at last he heard the sound of cannon fire.

Very quickly, he checked the body for any supplies before the hovercrafts arrived to take it away. The man from 1 had a belt of stiletto throwing knives, and he quickly unbuckled these from around his waist, but he didn't appear to have anything else. He strapped the knives on, and retrieved his own fallen dagger, just as the hovercrafts arrived to take his body away.

Daryl looked over towards the downed man from 3. Bob.

"I'm real sorry this happened to you," said Daryl.

"Me too," smiled Bob sadly. They stayed in silence for a while before Bob said, "I forgive you."

"For what?" Daryl said.

"Doing what you have to do."

"I ain't—"

"You can't leave me like this. I'm not going to leave this place. So I forgive you. Make it quick."

The pain in his side was still burning, but he nodded and stumbled over to where Bob was lying on the floor. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, then he put his arm around Bob's neck in a sleeper hold. He was unconscious in seconds. Hating himself for what he was being forced to do, Daryl held his knife above the man's heart then pushed straight down against it. The cannon fired a second later.

The wound in his side gave a particularly nasty throb. He had to do something to stem the flow of blood. Surely there was someone out there rooting for him? Some sponsor willing to send him something to help?

_He was thirty-eight years old. Very few people of his age still climbed to the topmost branches during harvest; it was usually left to the smallest children. But a flu virus had spread through District 11 and had affected the young and the elderly most of all._

_But a lack of available workers was never an excuse for work failing to be done. If the harvest was incomplete, an entire team of workers might not get paid, and Daryl wasn't going to risk that happening._

_He knew as he climbed that the upper branches might not support his weight, but the fear of starvation forced him higher._

_He held his breath when he heard the first loud snap beneath him. And there was a split second where he thought he had earned a reprieve. But the second snap sent him hurtling towards the ground. The branches slowed his fall, and hit the ground below with a terrible, sudden jolt as all the air was knocked from his lungs._

_He was aware of shouts, of worried voices surrounding him. He could hear Merle's shouts the loudest, as his brother rushed to his side. But mostly all he could focus on was the excruciating pain in his shoulder._

_"Looks dislocated," he heard Merle say. "I'm takin' him to a healer."_

_"You ain't doin' nothin'," said Daryl through gritted teeth. "Don't need both of us without a wage for the day."_

_He tried to sit upright, and went dizzy with the pain. But there was simply no way that they could afford to lose both his and Merle's wage. And with the added cost of paying for a healer to fix him, too…_

_"Stop fussin'," he grumbled when Merle tried to help him to his feet with a surprisingly gentle touch. "Don't need no help."_

_"I ain't gonna leave you, brother."_

_"I can walk. Get the fuck off me," he snapped, instantly feeling guilty. He wasn't angry at Merle; he was angry at himself, at his own idiocy. There was no telling how long an injury like this might prevent him from working, or hunting at night…_

_He clambered to his feet, and stumbled away, shrugging off any offers of help he got from his co-workers. As he got closer to town he reached into his pocket and found nothing. He had hoped to have at least a single coin to be able to barter with the healer. He'd have to promise him some of his future kills, and again the fear of not being able to hunt sent a spike of dread through the pit of his stomach._

_He was in such a blind state of anxiety that he failed to notice when he almost walked straight into Carol, although he couldn't keep the grunt of pain hidden as his shoulder was knocked._

_"Daryl?" she said, and the concern in her voice was immediately apparent. She gasped and reached towards his shoulder, stopping before she touched it. "How did you do this?"_

_"Fell," he muttered._

_"You're going to a healer?"_

_He nodded, but tears immediately filled his eyes at the thought of how much his mistake was going to cost him._

_"What's wrong?"_

_He shook his head. Having no money was an everyday part of almost everyone's lives in District 11, but it was still next to impossible to admit to her. "Can't afford it," he said and shrugged, then winced at how much the simple movement had hurt._

_"Then I'll pay for it."_

_"You ain't doin' that. I ain't lettin' ya do that."_

_"You don't have a choice," she said._

_He stared at her, anger, hurt and confusion bubbling up within him at her ever changing attitude towards him. "Why?" he said. "Why d'ya wanna help me? Why now?"_

_She blinked several times, and Daryl could see a single tear running down her cheek, and despite himself, he wanted to reach out and brush it away. "There are times," she said delicately, and it appeared as though she were picking her words very carefully, and that every single one caused her pain, "when it is...safer...for me to see you than others. I've told you before, being close to me isn't a good idea. I can't always protect you from…" She shook her head and looked towards the ground. "I can't say any more. But I want to help you. And if you won't take my money, I'll fix you myself. Your place is closer. So come on."_

_He followed silently in her wake, her words spinning round his head. Was she being monitored? By the Capitol maybe? Were the Victors not as free as the government propaganda promised?_

_Once they reached the home he shared with Merle, he opened the door and realised with a little embarrassment that this was the first time she had ever been inside the tiny shack. But she didn't seem to mind. She cleared a space on the wooden dining table and said, "Lie down here."_

_He did as he was told, and she maneuvered him to the very edge. "I need your boots," she said. "Do you mind?" He shook his head numbly as she untied them and pulled them from his feet, then handed the laces to him, with the heavy leather boots hanging down. "Grip this," she said. "And don't let go."_

_The added weight brought a tear to his eye, but he did as he was told. She took hold of his arm and very slowly began moving it in an arc until, with a sickening crunch, he felt the bone snap back into the socket._

_"It's going to hurt for a few days," she said. "So you should try to keep it rested. But you'll be ok."_

_He rolled his shoulder several times, amazed by the difference she had made. "Where'd you learn how to do that?" he asked her._

_"It was a useful skill to know when Ed…" she began, but didn't finish her sentence._

_"Well, thanks anyway," he said._

_"Anytime," she replied. "If you ever need me, and I'm not… If I can help you, I will," she said. "Always."_

Very carefully, he peeled off his leather jacket, and lifted the shirt and vest to inspect the wound in his side. The pain from it was blinding, and he comforted himself with the thought that, wherever she was, Sophia surely had to be doing better than him.

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, ripping the sleeves from it. He folded one of these over several times to create a pad and held this against the open wound, then ripped the other sleeve into strips, and used these to bind the pad to his side.

Breathless and in agony, he pulled the torn remainder of his shirt back on, and lay back in the dirt and filth. From high up above him, he thought that he could hear a vague tinkling sound. He squinted up to wards the sky and could see a tiny silver parachute drifting down towards him. In confusion he looked around, certain that it couldn't be for him. Six days in this godforsaken shit-hole and he'd had nothing, and now, just as he had been stabbed, when he was at his lowest, they decided to help him?

He pulled open the container attached to the parachute; inside was a small tub, and a printed note that read ' _Use liberally._ ' And handwritten on the tub, an extra note that read _'You should eat. Nine lives, remember?'_

He looked up at the sky. While Sophia lived, Carol was still rooting for him. She still believed in him, that he could deliver her little girl back to safety. And her note… _You should eat_ … she must have guessed that he was saving the other tin of food for Sophia, but perhaps she didn't need it? His heart swelled, and he quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Thanks," he muttered. "Coulda sent this before I tore up my clothes, huh?"

He opened the pot; inside was a thick, purple ointment with a harsh, almost metallic scent. After untying the makeshift bandage, he stuck his finger into the pot of thick purple goo and smeared it over the open wound. It stung like an absolute bitch for a moment, but then the pain receded, leaving just a dull echo in its wake. He repeated the application and then, just to be safe, retied the bandage. His empty stomach was screaming at the prospect of food and he pulled the tin from his backpack, finishing the cold stew in just a couple of mouthfuls.

There was still a tiny amount of the purple ointment in the tub, and he stashed this back inside his rucksack—just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of surviving tributes is as follows:
> 
> _1\. Male - Gareth,_ Female - Lizzie
> 
> 2\. Male -Negan, Female -Paula
> 
> _3\. Male - Bob, Female -Alisha_
> 
> _4\. Male - Dale,_ Female - Andrea
> 
> _5\. Male -Axel, Female -Deanna_
> 
> _6\. Male - Nicholas, Female -Dawn_
> 
> 7\. Male - Shane, _Female - Lori_
> 
> _8\. Male - Martin, Female -Jacqui_
> 
> _9\. Male - Hershel,_ Female - Beth
> 
> _10\. Male - Joe, Female -Karen_
> 
> 11\. Male - Daryl, Female - Sophia
> 
> _12\. Male - Noah, Female - Holly_


	9. The Hunger Games Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks in Italics
> 
> WARNING: Major character death in this chapter

He awoke suddenly, gasping for breath. He had been having a nightmare; one that felt all too real. The dead had surrounded him, but they weren't really dead; they were the Capitol mutts, every tribute who had died, and they were feasting on him while he was still alive. Only it wasn't just the dead tributes. Sophia was there, and Carol, Merle, Aaron… everyone he had ever cared about.

He was drenched in cold sweat, and a dull ache in his side reminded him that he had been stabbed the day before. He hurriedly peeled away the makeshift bandage; a tight white scar had formed, and it was surrounded by a small circle of bruises, but it appeared to have healed. He tentatively prodded the area; it was still tender, but it wouldn't hold him back. He'd had far worse, after all.

A week in the arena had left him confused and disorientated. The desaturation of the entire world played tricks on his mind to the extent where he wasn't sure if he could remember colors. He knew there was such a thing as green, for instance, for he had spent so much of his life amongst trees, but no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't recall it. There was only the constant grey of his surroundings, and the contrasting red of tributes' blood.

Despite the careful rationing of his remaining water, he was running desperately low, and he almost cried with joy when, midway through the morning, he heard the groan and snap of the shuffling Capitol mutts. Two of them appeared from the closest alleyway; the same two tributes he had killed the day before. He gripped his dagger tightly in his fist and brought the knife down into their skulls, one after the other. He retrieved the attached water and stashed it in his rucksack, and opened the tin of food without thinking twice. It was the same beef stew he had eaten on the train, and he devoured it in seconds.

Re-energized and revitalized, he began his search anew. Just after midday he came across the strangest sight; a shimmering in the air as if the ground itself was giving off vast amounts of heat. Was this another trap? Very carefully, Daryl bent to the ground and picked up a handful of gravel, then tossed one pebble towards the shimmer. There was a crackle of static, then the gravel came flying back towards him. A forcefield perhaps? Was this the very edge of the arena?

Keeping the forcefield to his left hand side, he began to follow the edge, making sure to stay several feet away from the tell-tale shimmer at all times. He followed it across several streets and alleys until he came across a sight that made him drop to his knees.

There was a tree growing at the very edge of the arena, and it was surrounded by a high stone wall. The perimeter looked to be around two or three hundred feet, and he could not help but wonder if it was another trap. But the need to be close to the familiar comfort of nature won him over, and he cautiously approached the stone wall.

As he did so, he heard voices and he stopped and listened carefully. There were three female voices, all of them young. They sounded happy, relaxed almost. And one of the laughing voices was definitely Sophia. He practically fell to the floor in relief.

"Sophia!" he shouted.

"Daryl?" her voice came back to him.

He placed his hand against the stone wall. She was just the other side. "Sophia, I'm comin'. You ok?"

But suddenly the laughing voices changed in pitch. There was a terrible scream, and Daryl's heart froze and plummeted as the scream was silenced and a cannon fire echoed across the arena.

There was not a second to lose. He could hear Sophia, crying and calling for him, and he found several handholds on the wall, and climbed as fast as he could.

When he reached the top of the wall, the sight temporarily took his breath away. It was a garden; perfectly manicured and filled with vivid flowers, with the tree at its very centre. A wrought iron gate provided the only main entrance on the far side of the garden, and this had been blocked with the bodies of several Capitol mutts. To the side of the tree was a stone water fountain that babbled away serenely. After the week long absence of color, it was almost an assault on his senses. But there was no time to admire it.

Lying on the floor, her eyes open but unseeing, was the teenage daughter of the old man from District 9. And standing next to her body—the girl from 1 stood behind her with a knife to her throat—was Sophia. She was still alive, but terrified, and Daryl jumped down from the top of the wall, immediately taking hold of one of his throwing knives and holding it ready.

"Let her go," said Daryl, his voice seething with fury. "You let her go, and I'll let you walk this once. You harm a single hair on her head, and I ain't lettin' you live."

"But it doesn't matter," said the girl from 1, a wide smile on her face. "She'll come back, and if you try and hurt me, so will I. I've seen them. No one here really dies. Not forever."

Stacked around the edges of the garden were several tubs of food. For a split second Daryl glanced back towards the wrought iron gate, to where the mutts had been stacked to block the entrance. How many mutt attacks had they survived? The sight of them must have turned the girl from 1, already brainwashed by Capitol propaganda, into an even more dangerous weapon. If only she wasn't hidden so much behind Sophia...but he couldn't risk accidentally missing, and hitting Sophia instead.

"Listen, kid, that ain't how this works. You just… put the knife down slowly, you let her go."

"Please," begged Sophia. "Please help me."

The world slowed to a dreadful halt as, with a benign smile, Lizzie span Sophia around on the spot, and then pushed her knife down into Sophia's chest. A cannon fire sounded and then there was a dreadful, animalistic cry. For a moment Daryl remembered the cry that Carol had given as Sophia's name came from the Reaping Ball. It was the sound of ultimate despair, and it came from him.

"Don't be sad, mister," said the young girl. "She'll come back. Just wait and see."

A terrible red mist descended over his eyes and in his incandescent rage he picked the girl up to get her away from Sophia's body. The girl laughed as if the whole thing was a game, and he threw her away from him in disgust.

She landed heavily on the water fountain, and there was a terrible crack. The girl's laughter was frozen on her face as a dark red stain spread out from the back of her head, covering the smooth grey stones. Her eyes glazed over, staring without seeing, as a second cannon fire echoed across the arena.

The idea that he had killed a child, even one responsible for the death of the girl he had sworn to protect, was too much to bear, and he turned away from her body. Instead he collapsed to his knees in front of Sophia. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

A memory from years and years earlier came back to him. It was the 74th Hunger Games, and Katniss Everdeen and Rue Martinez had formed an unlikely alliance. Rue's family lived just a few minutes away from him. The devastation felt by his neighborhood at her death, and the gratitude towards Katniss for treating her with respect when the Capitol failed to were insurmountable. And looking down at Sophia's tiny body, he felt compelled to do something similar for her now.

The whole garden was filled with unearthly beauty, but directly in front of them was a particular plant that caught his eye. The flower that had been woven into her hair during her interview. He had no idea if Sophia's stylists had known its true meaning, but the fact she had worn it then, and the fact it was here now seemed too great a coincidence. He plucked a single, white, five petalled rose from the bush, and placed it on her chest, covering the bloody knife wound, then rested her hands over the stem. It looked as if she were clutching the flower, and merely sleeping peacefully.

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and spoke in the softest tone to her body. "When I was a kid, my momma told me a story, all about the people who used to live here years ago. And I'm talkin' way back, back before Panem, before the Dark Days, before the wars and the fall. See, there had always been people here, but a new group of people came from way over the seas, and back then the land was rich, and there was plenty of huntin', and no one ever went hungry. And the people from overseas wanted everythin' the native folks had, so they took it, and they killed everyone who stood in their way, kids and all. And the mothers of the native folks, they went outta their minds with despair, and they wept for the deaths of the lost children. And everywhere their tears fell, this rose started to grow. And I think this one here, this one's just for you."

The hovercrafts would be waiting for him to back away so they could clear the garden of the three bodies. As far as he was concerned they could wait forever. He had no idea if his story had been broadcast, but they would have to show Sophia eventually, and he wanted to hold the Capitol accountable, even just for a second.

_It was always hard when a twelve year old was Reaped. Deep down, everyone knew that young children didn't stand a chance. But when, on the 99th Hunger Games, both the boy and the girl were only twelve, it cast a dark shadow over District 11._

_Viewing was, as ever, mandatory, but without even the vaguest shred of hope that one of the tributes would return home, most citizens of District 11 only half-watched. The dread at the inevitable was too great._

_Both Sam Anderson and Meghan Chambler died on the first day of the Games. Poor Sam had been so terrified at everything happening before him that he had frozen solid, crying at the sight of the massacre at the cornucopia. Some brute from District 2 had ended him swiftly. Meghan managed to run as far as the treeline before she fell into an awaiting trap pit. The fall broke her leg. The Career pack finished her off an hour later._

_Victors weren't allowed to leave the Capitol until the Games were over, even once all their tributes were dead, and so it wasn't until a week and a half later that Carol finally returned to 11. Daryl saw her in town on the day of her return, picking Sophia up from her friend's house. The Rhee family owned the local bakery, and always looked after Sophia during Carol's trips to the Capitol. She held Sophia tightly, as if she was physically unable to let go, and even from a distance Daryl could see that her eyes were rimmed with red._

_When she finally stood up again, she looked up and caught Daryl's eyes, offering him a sad smile._

_"Hey," he said as he came over to meet her. "You good?"_

_"No," she answered honestly._

_"You want me to walk you home?"_

_"I'd like that."_

_They walked together in silence, but Daryl didn't mind; their silences had always been comfortable. Sophia skipped ahead, and Carol didn't tear her eyes from her._

_"You know it ain't your fault, right?" Daryl said after a while._

_Carol nodded, and her eyes fell to the ground. "It's just…we try so hard to save them, and… Sam… I told him he needed to run. I told him to get out of there. And…" She shook her head, and her next words seemed to cause her physical pain. "He reminded me so much of Sophia. And the things he said, the way he talked about his dad... And now he's gone. I couldn't save him. And next year it'll be Sophia's first Reaping, and… I just keep thinking, what if... and I can't save her either."_

_Daryl desperately tried to find something comforting to say. He'd never really understood why anyone chose to have children in such an unsettled and dangerous world, least of all someone who had lived through the Games. "You gotta think of the odds," he said at last. "Chances of her name comin' out are so small. Sam and Meghan, they ain't from rich families, they'd have already signed up for Tesserae. Shit, look at me. I had my name in that goddamn ball forty-three times at my last Reapin' and I made it through. Sophia ain't never gonna be in there more than seven times. She'll make it."_

_"You really believe that?" Carol asked him._

_"I do," he said._

_She looked sideways at him, and gave him the faintest of smiles. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you."_

_She reached towards him, her fingertips just brushing against his at first, before she took hold of his hand and gently squeezed, and in silence they walked back to Victor's Village._

Everything was numb as he gazed down at Sophia's body, and it was only the tinkling sound of another parachute that roused him. Why the hell would Carol be sending him anything now?

He snatched the silver parachute out of the air and pulled open the container. It was a dark, coarse-grained, dense bread roll. It looked to be made from the same tesserae ration grain that bread was made from in District 11, but with less finesse; whereas the District 11 speciality was crescent shaped and sprinkled with seeds, this looked more like a lump of coal.

Again, he remembered Rue's death. Gifts for tributes were incredibly expensive, and he recalled how every single one of his neighbors had scrimped and saved and given what they could so that Rue could receive some food in the arena. And after Rue had died—and Katniss had honored her by singing to her, and placing a wreath of flowers around her body—the neighborhood had decided that Katniss should receive the bread instead. Did this seemingly simple gift of bread hold some kind of deeper meaning?

He had no idea what it could possibly mean, but he muttered a teary, "Thanks," to the sky, and stashed the roll in his bag, then returned to his silent vigil beside Sophia.

It was only at the very last second that he heard the footsteps behind him, and just caught a glimpse of the wire pulled taut between a man's hands.

He managed to throw his hands up to stop the wire cutting directly into his neck just in time, but he was entirely trapped. He struggled against the wire, and against his own hands which were starting to crush his windpipe. The man holding him captive leaned forward to talk directly in his ear, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that it was the man from District 7.

"You know, in a way I suppose I've got to thank you," he taunted. "I didn't think I'd have it in me to kill a child. That was pretty much all that was standing between me, and going home."

Blood was starting to weep from where the wire cut into his fingers, but more worrying was that the world was turning darker and quieter. In desperation he threw his head back, cracking the man hard across the nose.

The pressure from the wire around his neck loosened, and he took a huge, gasping breath as color and light returned to his vision. Before the District 7 tribute could tighten the wire again, he slammed his elbow back, knocking the man away.

In a split second, Daryl was on top of him, stabbing his dagger over and over into the man's chest. Every ounce of rage, fury, hopelessness, impotence, and despair that he had felt since his name had been pulled from the Reaping Ball bubbled up to the surface, and he took it all out on the man from 7. Even after the cannon had fired he didn't stop, until he was exhausted and blinded by his own tears.

Finally, he stood and staggered backwards away from the four bodies, a burst of absolute violence left amongst a scene of perfect serenity. At long last, four hovercrafts descended and took the bodies away, and Daryl watched Sophia until she was out of sight.

He looked down at his hands; they were covered in blood, both his own and that of the man from 7. After rinsing his hands in the stone water fountain, he examined the cut left by the wire, and used the last of the medicine on them that Carol had sent.

When the Panem Anthem played, and the photos of the fallen tributes appeared in the sky, it caused a terrible ache in his heart. But amongst the sorrow there was the vaguest glimmer of hope; for the first time since arriving in the arena, he felt the possibility that he could go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remaining Tributes are as follows:
> 
> _1\. Male - Gareth, Female - Lizzie_
> 
> 2\. Male -Negan, Female -Paula
> 
> _3\. Male - Bob, Female -Alisha_
> 
> _4\. Male - Dale,_ Female - Andrea
> 
> _5\. Male -Axel, Female -Deanna_
> 
> _6\. Male - Nicholas, Female -Dawn_
> 
> _7\. Male - Shane, Female - Lori_
> 
> _8\. Male - Martin, Female -Jacqui_
> 
> _9\. Male - Hershel, Female - Beth_
> 
> _10\. Male - Joe, Female -Karen_
> 
> 11\. Male - Daryl, _Female - Sophia_
> 
> _12\. Male - Noah, Female - Holly_


	10. The Hunger Games Part V

He was roughly pulled from another nightmare. Panic clawed at his chest, drowning him with the vestiges of the terrifying images that still swam before his eyes. His hand automatically flew to the dagger by his side and he gripped it almost painfully tightly until he finally realised that he was, relatively speaking, safe.

With difficulty he pulled himself into a sitting position, as the nightmare he had escaped tried to drag him back under, and he forced himself to focus on the beauty and peace of nature he was surrounded by.

The image of a young girl with blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair begging for his help came to the forefront of his mind. The physical ache that the memory of her death caused made him feel as though he were drowning once again, and he rested his head in his shaking hands.

His stomach growled loudly, and he tried his best to ignore it; guilt, it turned out, was one hell of an appetite suppressant, although it didn't last forever.

There was plenty to choose from; the girls had a stash of several tins, and the wave of guilt washed over him again. How many mutts had they fought in the time that they had been holed up here? Ignoring the tight, breathless feeling in his chest, he picked a tin at random, then sat back down in the soft, damp grass, and pulled the ugly bread roll from his bag.

He turned it over several times in his hands; it certainly wasn't rich man's bread, and so whoever had sent him this had probably had to sacrifice a great deal to pay for it. He tore a chunk from it and muttered another, "Thanks," to the sky before eating it. The bread was dense and dry, but he could tell that it would at least be filling.

He pulled the lid from his chosen tin—it looked to be the same vegetable stew he had found with the first mutts—and ate it in a couple of mouthfuls, using the remaining bread to mop up every last drop. The stew made the dense, dry bread much more palatable, and as he swallowed the last mouthful he walked to the water fountain to refill his water bottle. A dark stain against the grey stone showed precisely where Lizzie had died. Where he had killed her. Where he had killed a child… And below his feet would have been where Sophia fell…

The serenity of the garden felt suddenly oppressive; the terrible shock of everything that had happened yesterday had robbed him of his ability to think, and he had collapsed on the soft grass and not moved. And now, the realisation of the horror that had taken place was a punch to the stomach.

He stumbled towards the iron gate to clear it of the bodies of the mutts to escape the hellish place, and had moved them all to one side when the cannon fired across the arena. He paused for a moment as he tried to work out how many people were left. Three? Was that right? That there were only two people now preventing him from going home?

But the idea of hunting them down, whoever was left—and Daryl had a reasonably good idea who at least one of them would be—didn't sit right with him. He thought about the deaths he had been responsible for in the arena; Bob he had killed out of mercy. He had been furious at Lizzie, but her death had been an accident. And there was someone he had killed in the bloodbath by accident, as he had been aiming at Negan. Everyone else had been in self defence.

So maybe it was better to sit and wait… Surely it had to be better for them to come to him, than for him to hunt them and kill them in cold blood?

He glanced back towards the water fountain, shuddering once more at the sight of the dark stain discoloring the grey stone. If he could ignore it, if he could ignore what happened, he had water here. He had food. There was no need to leave…

Just as he made his mind up to stay, the cannon fired a second time. The babbling sound of the water fountain was silenced as it immediately dried up, and a split second later the arena was plunged into an unnatural night. The only sounds he could hear was his own shallow, slightly panicked breathing, and his heart racing painfully fast.

A full moon appeared high in the night sky, casting enough light to see by; the Gamesmakers were preparing for the finale. Seconds later, he heard the shuffling footsteps and terrifying snap and groan of the dead mutts.

He could see them through the gate; far too many for him to fight, and they were closing in on his sanctuary. It was now or never to get out.

But then from around the corner came something that terrified Daryl to his very core. It stumbled straight through the gate and reached out towards him with its bloody maw, and dead, yellowed eyes. It was one of the Capitol mutts, but there was no way that it should be here. It was Merle.

"Merle?" he asked in a tremulous voice.

But the monster that wore his brother's face kept coming.

Tears blinded him, and the pain of seeing his brother dead tore at his soul as the mutt came closer. But Daryl couldn't bring himself to end it. He pushed hard against the mutt's chest; for a moment it spun away from him, but righted itself almost instantly. Still he was unable to kill it as it came for him once more, and Daryl shoved it further away from himself. With a roar of sorrow, Daryl gripped hold of his dagger and brought it down into the skull of his dead brother.

"Why are ya doin' this?" he shouted at the sky, then clambered backwards away from Merle's body as the hordes of other Capitol mutts began to pour in through the gate.

He was trapped. There was no way he could safely fight through them all. Without stopping to think he ran towards the tree and climbed up into its branches, then darted swiftly along one of the sturdier ones that reached back towards the stone wall. After taking a deep breath he jumped towards the wall, barely making it. He hauled himself up on top, then ran along the stone ledge to the opposite side of the garden, and then jumped down.

But there was no time to rest as more mutts were beginning to appear from everywhere. They blocked the streets and the alleyways, leaving only a specific path open to him. As if they were shepherding him to a very specific point in the arena.

And amongst the mutts he saw the same faces over and over again; the tributes he had killed, the ones he knew had died, Sophia was around every corner he turned, as was Merle, but he didn't stop to fight them. He couldn't. He had to win this and get back to the Capitol. He had to make President Blake pay for what he had done.

Whether all the street traps had been deactivated, or whether luck was finally throwing him a bone, Daryl didn't know. He didn't care. He raced through the dusty, grey streets, his lungs burning, until at last he saw the silver cornucopia, moonlight reflecting off of its surface.

He could see mutts slowly shuffling towards it, but the other tribute was nowhere to be seen. But whoever they were, they had to still be alive…

When he approached the gleaming cornucopia he had a split second's warning as Negan stepped around the corner and took a powerful swing at him with a huge, barbed wire coated baseball bat. He managed to stumble backwards out of the bat's arc, as the edge of the wire just snagged against his clothing.

But the momentum made him fall to the ground, and a he caught a heavy boot to his stomach, making him double up in pain. He looked up as Negan raised the bat high above his head, then quickly rolled to the side as the bat crashed into the dirt beside him.

He quickly scrambled away before Negan could attack again, and ran to the other side of the cornucopia to catch his breath.

"Give it up, eleven! This game is mine. It was always going to be mine," he heard Negan shout in a mocking tone. "You couldn't protect that girl, and you sure as fuck can't protect yourself."

He knew that Negan was trying to get a rise out of him, that his anger would make him reckless, but it was still hard to contain his emotions at the jibe. He ground his teeth and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek—the physical pain helping to dispel the anger—as he tried to decide on his next move. Ahead of him the mutts crept ever closer; if he didn't finish this soon, they'd be surrounded. He gripped his dagger tighter in his fist. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest, it felt as if it were trying to escape, but he forced his fear to the pit of his stomach. Steeling himself with several deep breaths, he peered around the corner, and immediately ducked once again as the bat swung for his head. It cracked into the side of the cornucopia with a resounding clang and the mutts surrounding them seemed to pick up the pace towards them.

Before Negan could recover from the swing, Daryl kicked him away and began to climb the cornucopia. It was far too dangerous attempting to get close to the powerful swing of that bat, but if he could put some distance between them, he still had his throwing knives.

He made it to the top easily; a lifetime spent climbing the trees back home in 11 had made him nimble. Living in 2 might have made Negan strong, but that wasn't necessarily an advantage now. He could see Negan struggling to climb, forcing his way to the top with brute strength rather than agility, and he threw the first knife down towards him.

The blade landed squarely in Negan's shoulder, but he kept climbing as if nothing had happened. Daryl kicked down towards the knife, pushing it further into Negan's shoulder. With a yell of fury, Negan grabbed hold of Daryl's foot and yanked, pulling him away from the safety of the cornucopia.

He landed heavily on his back, the air knocked from his lungs. But he had no time to lose; the mutts were barely fifteen feet away from him. He looked up at the top of the cornucopia. Negan was pulling the blade from his shoulder; he was momentarily distracted, and so Daryl quickly took aim and threw another knife.

This one landed in the top of Negan's thigh. He stumbled backwards as Daryl ran once more for the cornucopia and started to climb; he could practically feel the mutts' putrid breath on the back of his neck.

He clambered to the top and straightened up just as Negan charged at him, wielding the knife from his shoulder. Daryl ducked down at the last second, using Negan's own momentum against him to throw him over his shoulder and off the safety of the cornucopia.

He landed squarely amongst the mutts. Daryl looked away from the gruesome spectacle as they immediately began to tear into Negan's flesh, feasting on it while he was still alive. The shouts and screams seemed to go on forever, and Daryl collapsed on top of the cornucopia, his head in his hands, as he tried to block out the terrible sound of the man being torn to pieces below him. At long last, a trumpet fanfare rang out across the arena. Daryl looked up to the sky, and as the moonlight bathed him in a silver glow, a voice boomed out all around him.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to present the Victor of the one-hundredth Hunger Games, from District 11, Daryl Dixon!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go....


	11. The Aftermath

It was with a great deal of trepidation that Carol made her way to the medical area at the very heart of the Training Centre. Victors had been taken out of the arena in a far worse physical state than Daryl; she immediately thought of Peeta, and how his leg had been amputated due to his injuries. But she was concerned for his emotional and mental state. Winning the Games was very rarely a pleasant experience; certainly not for any decent person, anyway.

Since Sophia's death she had been broken, unable to stop the constant flow of tears. But she had to let him know that she didn't blame him for it. If she was being honest with herself she knew that she had lost her daughter from the very moment her name had been pulled from the Reaping Ball. In its hundred year history, no twelve year old had ever won the games. Apart from Finnick Odair, no one under the age of fifteen had ever won, and that was only because he won the favor of every single Capitol citizen, and gained more sponsors than most tributes put together.

And so, when she had held her daughter and said goodbye on the morning of the Games, a part of her had known that it was forever, despite the faint sliver of hope that Daryl had given her.

She paused outside the door to the medical centre. Daryl was just on the other side, and she had no idea how he would react to her. Especially given what had happened between them the last time they had been together. She had both wanted and denied herself him for years; given the Capitol's habit of hurting or even killing loved ones if a Victor stepped a single toe out of line, it simply hadn't been safe to allow him to get close to her. She knew it had been selfish of her on that final night with him, to take what she had desperately wanted for so many years, but they couldn't hurt him any more than they already had.

Very tentatively, she pushed open the door. He had been stripped to the waist and was sat on the edge of a bed, staring at the ground. The cold, harsh fluorescent lighting threw into sharp relief the extent of the bruising on his body, as well as just how much weight he had lost, and she inhaled sharply at the sight. Three doctors fussed about him, but he barely seemed to register that they were there.

And then, very slowly, he looked up and caught her eye. There was a moment of hesitation, almost of fear, where he clearly believed that she felt nothing but resentment and animosity towards him, but she nodded through her tears. He slid off the bed and ran towards her, his body colliding clumsily with hers as he threw his arms about her and pressed his face into her neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her, over and over again. "I didn't… I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she answered. "You did everything you could."

"Wasn't enough," he sobbed.

"Stop," she said. "It's not your fault. None of this is."

_The rose-scented white envelope with the golden Capitol seal lay discarded on her kitchen table. Its contents had been read and ripped up into tiny pieces. The Capitol escort would be arriving today to take her to the Capitol to meet with a particularly wealthy client._

_She thought she was done being the Capitol's plaything. No one had wanted her for years; not when there were so many new, younger tributes to choose from. Apparently not._

_She had already taken Sophia to the Rhee family bakery, and told them she would be away for a few days on 'Capitol business,' and then returned home to wait for her escort._

_But the more she sat alone in her house, the longer she waited, the more she began to panic. The idea of being dragged to the Capitol, to be a rich citizen's property for a few hours, to be degraded and used, for her consent to be ignored…_

_When she had first been bought over and over by Capitol citizens, she had tried to follow Finnick Odair's advice, to simply switch off, and to remember what was at stake. That if you didn't do as you were told, your loved ones back home would be harmed. But when she had been unable to separate herself from what was happening, she had tried a different approach. To make herself undesirable to the Capitol clientele. She had cut her hair short, far shorter than Capitol fashions dictated was acceptable for a woman, but to really keep them away from her, she wanted to change her body. Pregnancy was certainly an option. And if she were to miscarry, even better. After all, bringing a child into this world, where they would be forced to face the fear of the Reaping, to possibly become a tribute themselves. And then to either die for the entertainment of the masses, or worse… be forced into a life such as this…_

_No. She wasn't ready to be a mother. But pregnancy was certainly an option. But not with someone she cared about. After all, she couldn't risk the life of a man she loved. And so she didn't. She married Ed Peletier instead. And she tried to become pregnant, convincing herself that sleeping with Ed was somehow better than sleeping with the parade of faceless Capitol citizens. At least this was her choice, after all. And when she finally did become pregnant, she allowed her belly to swell, and the Capitol called on her even less. In secret she began taking dong quai to induce a miscarriage until the day she had bumped into Daryl, and he had taken her to healer Cloyd._

_She had felt a terrible, terrible guilt at what she had done. And even though she didn't believe it herself, she repeated the lie over and over again; that it was for the best—that it would keep the Capitol away—that she felt nothing for the loss of the life that had been growing within her. When her plan seemed to work, and no rose-scented letters arrived, the relief that she felt was almost greater than the guilt. Almost._

_But it wouldn't keep them away forever. And so the cycle started again. When she got pregnant a second time, at first she took the dong quai, but was immediately filled with a dreadful guilt for the unborn life within her. She immediately pushed her fingers far down the back of her throat and vomited the herbal concoction straight back up, her nose and throat burning from the sensation. And when Sophia was finally born, she realized the full consequences of her previous actions; her attempts to end her pregnancy, and the success at doing so before hit her with the force of an explosion. How could she possibly have done anything to harm the perfect life that she cradled in her arms? She whispered a heartfelt and genuine apology to the child she had lost before, and promised her daughter the world. She would do anything and everything in her power to protect her from the Capitol. From her own father. Her own life and happiness didn't matter as long as she could protect her daughter._

_By now, there were younger Victors that the Capitol preferred to her. Finnick was still by far the most popular Victor, and Peeta and Katniss were still chosen as a couple by citizens who wanted something a little more...exotic...but she received the rose-scented Capitol sealed letters less and less._

_The last time she had been bought had been when Sophia was seven. She had done everything the client had demanded of her, but somehow he still wasn't satisfied. Ed was killed less than two weeks later._

_And now, for the first time in nearly five years, she was being summoned back again. The thought was like a lead weight on her chest, restricting her breathing. By the time Hestia arrived to escort her back to the Capitol, she was hyperventilating to the point that she had made herself physically sick with the panic._

_"Oh, my dear," said Hestia. "You're in no fit state to travel, much less entertain anyone."_

_"No!" gasped Carol, thinking of what they might do to Sophia if she failed to show. "Please—let—me—go!"_

_"I would be remiss in my duties were I to do such a thing! No, I think it is best if we just reschedule. The client will understand, I am sure."_

_Hestia gave Carol something to help her sleep, and put her to bed; she fell asleep almost instantly but was beset by night terrors that she was unable to wake from. She slept through most of the day, only finally waking at nearly five in the afternoon. A letter had been left on her kitchen table from Hestia that explained that she would smooth things out with the client, not to worry, and that she would be back in touch soon with a rescheduled date. As she read it, Carol finally began to feel calmer. If she'd had some warning that she had been requested by a client, if she could mentally prepare herself, she could do it. But for now, at least, she had been given a certain amount of respite._

_After washing and dressing, the waking nightmare of the previous day began to fade, and she decided to walk into town to collect Sophia. But before she reached the bakery, she saw Daryl, clearly having finished a long shift at work. Sweat plastered his hair to his head, and the layer of dirt that covered his bare arms was so ingrained as to appear to be a permanent tan._

_"Hey," she smiled at him._

_"Hey."_

_"You on your way home?"_

_He nodded, the exhaustion apparent in every line of his face._

_"Is it ok if walk with you a while?" she asked._

_"Sure."_

_She fell into step beside him, neither of them talking, content just to be in his calming presence. She longed to tell him everything. To confess it all. To live in a world where she could have been with him from the very beginning. The thought of how much she had missed, purely because she was the one chosen by her classmate to fight in the last Quarter Quell over some petty vendetta overwhelmed her, and she stifled a sudden sob._

_She tried to hide it from Daryl, but he noticed straight away. "Hey," he said, as he turned towards her and gently ran his fingertips under her chin. "What's wrong?"_

_"I… I can't say," she answered truthfully._

_He paused for the briefest of moments, as if he was unsure if he was doing the right thing. "Come here," he said, and he put his arms around her, and pulled her close to him._

_She melted into his embrace and rested her head against his chest. In his arms she felt a safety that she had never experienced before, and she allowed herself to cry for the first time in as long as she could remember. He made no demands of her; he just held her steady until she finally stilled._

_As she pulled away, she rested her hand against his chest, and could feel the strong, elevated beat of his heart. She looked up at his face; his lips were slightly parted and his blue eyes burned with intensity. Without conscious thought, she reached up to touch his cheek and ran her hand along the grey-flecked scruff of his unshaven jaw. His eyes fluttered closed, and very slowly, she drew him towards her._

_His lips were warm and dry, and his kiss was an odd mix of enthusiastic passion and obvious inexperience. Was his inexperience due to waiting for her for so many years? The thought caused a pang deep in her chest, and she tightened her arms around him to pull him even closer. He deserved this. Hell, she deserved this._

_She deepened the kiss, pressing her tongue against his, gently leading him and showing him what she liked, and she hummed her satisfaction as he followed her example. His kiss ignited a fire deep within her belly, and the hardness she could feel pressing into her stoked that fire further._

_She reached between them and palmed her hand over his prominent erection, causing a strangled little cry to spill from the back of his throat. "Please," she whispered into him. "I need you."_

_He stared at her in disbelief, apparently unsure what to do next. She took hold of his hand and began to lead him towards his house. "Wait," he said suddenly. "Don't you wanna go to yours? It's gonna be… I mean, I ain't got much space… and Merle's gonna be home."_

_"You can get rid of Merle," she smiled. "Payback for all those years, remember?"_

_He nervously returned her smile, and began to lead the way, and Carol breathed the smallest sigh of relief. Truth was she knew that taking Daryl back to hers—especially after failing to attend a Capitol appointment—was far too dangerous. Far safer to stay at his instead._

_When they reached the small shack he shared with Merle he gave another nervous smile. "You sure about this?" he asked._

_"I'm sure," she said. "I'll wait just round the corner. I know how much Merle likes to talk. It's best if he doesn't see me."_

_"You ain't gonna run?"_

_"I promise," she smiled._

_He nodded, still clearly nervous._

_"Go," she said. "I'll be right here."_

_He gave her one last quick kiss and hurried indoors, while she walked to the back of his house, to where they had once found Sophia playing hide and seek, and she smiled at the memory. Over the years, Daryl had proven to be a better father to Sophia than Ed ever was. She hoped she could give him a little something back for all his kindness, at long last._

_From inside the wooden shack, she heard Merle's whooping cheer, and she couldn't help the smile on her own face as she imagined the awkward conversation Daryl had just had. Merle emerged moments later and walked off up the road, a wide grin on his face._

_A few seconds later Daryl found her. "He's gonna go to one of his girls' places so, we got the place to ourselves all night. I mean… if you still want to—"_

_She stopped him talking by kissing him and pressing against his chest, maneuvering him backwards, until they were stood in front of his porch._

_"Carol Peletier?" said a harsh voice._

_In a panic, she broke their kiss, and looked over her shoulders towards the Peacekeepers who moved towards them, their guns raised._

_"Wait," said Daryl. "I ain't breakin' no laws."_

_"Get indoors," snapped one of the Peacekeepers. "It's almost curfew."_

_"Yeah, but it ain't yet. I aint breakin' no laws!"_

_"You need to come with us."_

_"But I ain't done nothin' wrong!"_

_"Not you," snapped the Peacekeeper. "Mrs Peletier."_

_She looked back at Daryl. Desperation, fear, and confusion were written all over his face, and more than anything she wanted to comfort him, to hold him, to return his affections. He clearly couldn't understand why she was in trouble and could only assume that it was him. But with a sinking feeling that felt like drowning, she turned away from him. Being caught like this… she had already put his life in too much danger. "Go inside, Daryl," she said in a dead voice. "This was a mistake. It can't happen again. I'm sorry."_

"It's my fault," she whispered into him. "All of this is my fault."

"No," he said. "It ain't you."

She closed her eyes. How could she possibly tell him what she suspected? That the Capitol had had her followed after failing to come to her appointment, despite what Hestia had promised her... That the announcement of the rules of the Quell a few weeks after being caught with him, that allowed adults to be Reaped for the first time ever, and then Sophia and his names coming out of the Reaping Ball wasn't a coincidence; it was her punishment.

Very slowly he raised his head. She could see the fear behind his eyes; it would take him a long time to escape the arena and lose the haunted, hollow look. Some Victors never did. But if he would allow it, she would be there for him. "Merle…" he choked, sadness overwhelming him.

"Is alive," she said soothingly. "What you saw in the arena, it wasn't real."

"But—"

"The mutts...they were engineered to look like people, but it wasn't them. They interviewed Merle when you reached the final eight. That's how they knew what he looked like. How they could make that….thing. But it wasn't really him."

"Why did they do that?"

She had her suspicions, but was unable to say. With a tender caress, she ran her fingers along his jaw. "Let the doctors heal you," she said. "We can talk more later. The Training Centre has some wonderful roof gardens, so if you're able to, you can meet me up there. You can see practically the whole city. It's beautiful. The wind can get a little loud though…"

He gave a little nod, a questioning look in his eye, then returned to his hospital bed, where the doctors continued to fuss over him. She hoped that he understood her meaning; that on the roof they could talk more freely without the fear of being overheard.

Up on the roof the sun was just beginning to set, bathing the city in a glorious golden glow, when Daryl finally joined her. He looked pale and exhausted, the dark rings under his eyes emphasising his extreme fatigue.

Carol could see the disgust written all over his face, that something so beautiful and peaceful existed in a place that celebrated destruction and violence. He ignored the trees and the flowers, and joined her at the very edge of the roof, leaning his elbows on the edge of the balcony.

"Didn't think I'd get to see nothin' like this again," he said.

She studied his face. He was staring straight into the golden sun, but even that glowing, warming light couldn't take the edge off the haunted look in his eyes.

She linked her fingers through his own and gazed into the sunset as well. Taking a deep breath, she said, "President Blake didn't want you to win."

He half turned towards her. "What?" he asked.

"The mutts he had the Gamesmakers send you, the ones that looked like Merle… he wanted to disarm you. He wanted you to make a mistake. He sent nothing like that after Negan. When you…" She choked up, and tears immediately blurred her vision. "When you told that story to Sophia… it caused outrage. In a lot of the Districts. Especially after everything you'd already said in your interview. I've seen news reports. There were practically riots in the streets."

Daryl gripped her hand a little harder. "Maybe there needs to be," he said quietly.

"Daryl, you don't understand the danger you're in now. We aren't free. You say something like that, and accidents are going to happen. Not to you. To your friends and family back home."

"They can't just—"

"Daryl, do you really believe Ed just dropped down dead aged thirty-eight? Do you really believe it was coincidence that out of tens of thousands of names, it was Sophia's that came out? And yours?"

"What are you sayin'?"

"Every Victor is nothing more to the Capitol than a piece of propaganda. A figurehead used to sell the idea of the Games and keep the Districts in line. If you do something wrong, they won't hurt you; after all, winning the Games is supposed to be something to aspire to. You can't be a figurehead if you're dead. So they hurt someone you love. If you don't want to see Merle dead, you need to toe the line." She swallowed heavily and cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand. "The Capitol are all obsessed with the idea that you and I are together. Tomorrow night, you'll be interviewed by Caesar once again. If he talks about the story you told to Sophia, you just say that you are so damn in love with me, that you had lost your mind with grief. You bring everything back to me. Pretending you did it for me is the only way to keep your loved ones safe." She hurriedly blinked back the tears that she could feel pricking at the backs of her eyes. "After all, now that they can't touch you personally, they can't take anything else from me."

He stepped a little closer to her, and the sun setting behind him created a golden halo around his head. The imagery was almost too much for her to bear.

"Does it have to be a pretence?" he asked gently, and she stepped forward into his arms, finally able to give herself fully to him after years of trying to keep him safe. He ducked his head towards her, his lips brushing softly against hers but staying entirely still until she kissed him first. And once they started, it became impossible to stop. Every tear she had shed over the last week, every sleepless night, every ounce of pain… his kisses were a soothing balm for it all, even if the relief was only temporary.

They stood entwined together on the roof, losing themselves in each other's embrace, until the sun finally set, and then in silence she took his hand and led him back downstairs and to her private rooms.

There was no discussion; in silence they undressed and sought the comfort they could only find in each other, their love forcing the desperate pain of their existence to melt away. Finally, sated and exhausted, Daryl curled around her back, holding her as close to his chest as possible. He woke up twice, nightmares dragging him from the safety of sleep, disorienting him until Carol could calm him. She smoothed his hair, pressed soft kisses to his forehead, and whispered to him over and over, "You're safe now. It's not real. You're safe now."

The following night during his interview, his nervousness was entirely apparent. He did as she told him and deflected most questions away, either with his gruff and monosyllabic answers, or by talking about how everything he did, he did for Carol. He caught her eye several times during the interview, and each time she would smile and encourage him, and each time it seemed to give him the strength to continue.

When Caesar showed a recap of the Games, she wanted to run on stage and hold him, to protect him from having to relive every awful moment. She could see his fist tense tightly when it showed that he had accidentally killed the man from 5 with a bolt through the eye during the opening massacre; a bolt that he had originally intended for Negan. He had not known who he had killed at the time. And with each death shown, she could see his distress growing stronger and stronger, that he was withdrawing further and further into himself, until finally Sophia's death was repeated on screen for all to see.

Carol turned away from the screens and stifled a sob, quickly drying her eyes on her sleeves. As Carol suspected, the recap glossed over Daryl's tribute entirely, and moved straight on to the attack by the man from 7. When she managed to look back at Daryl she could see that his eyes had glazed over and his jaw was set, and he didn't look up at all during the remainder of the recap.

At the end of the interview, President Blake came on stage to rapturous applause in order to crown Daryl as the Victor. Carol watched the President's face closely. His cold smile didn't reach his eyes, and as he placed the ceremonial crown upon Daryl's head and uttered a brief, "Congratulations," Carol's heart began to pound harder than ever; the chilling tone to his voice indicated that the President was still far from pleased with his latest Victor.

Daryl surely noticed it too, for she saw the slight movement in his jaw as his teeth clenched, just before offering the President a respectful bow.

Not a moment too soon, they were back on the train home. It was a subdued journey. Daryl was lost in a world of his own thoughts and fears, and yet never once left her side, and was ready with a comforting shoulder for Carol to cry on each time the thought of returning to District 11 without Sophia became too much.

At long last, the train began to slow as it approached the gated tunnel that marked the entrance to District 11. Carol gripped hold of Daryl's hand tighter than ever as the train rolled through. She had made this train journey countless times without Sophia, but the knowledge that her daughter was waiting for her at home had always been a beacon of hope when times had become too dark.

She gazed out of the window as the train rolled slowly into the tunnel, and something caught her eye, causing her heart to race so fast that she felt faint.

A piece of graffiti that had been there since her very first train journey out of District 11—but had long since faded to almost nothing—had been repainted. The symbol of the Mockingjay pin that Katniss Everdeen had worn during her games—the symbol that had almost inspired a revolution—was back, bright red and freshly painted, and the words " _The Odds Are Never In Our Favor_ " were scrawled next to it.

But beside that was a new piece of graffiti. It was the image of a five-petaled rose, and growing from either side, angel wings. The words, " _It's time for a new Mockingjay_ " had been written beside it.

She turned to Daryl, who had become pale at the sight of the words. She hadn't told him who had sent him the bread in the arena, nor why. That Katniss had recognized something of herself in him as he had sat beside the dead body of a girl too young and innocent to have been thrown into a battle to the death. That she had remembered the bread District 11 had sent her, and so had anonymously sent him a similar gift from her own District. A thank you from someone who understood his feelings entirely.

Rue's death had caused riots. The 74th Hunger Games, and Katniss and Peeta's role in them, had almost sparked a revolution. There had been talks of riots following Sophia's death. And now, someone in District 11 had risked punishment for themselves, and probably their entire family, to compare them both.

Perhaps the graffiti artist was right. Perhaps it was time for a new Mockingjay. Time for a revolution at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Thanks once again to na-bruma-leve,saedhriel, and lovesdaryl for being an awesome trio of betas.
> 
> And watch this space... there may be a sequel in the works at some point...


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